


Now the light falls

by Lunar_Resonance



Series: Ghost Eater [1]
Category: Soul Eater
Genre: F/M, GHOST PUNS, Pining, Possession, Repressed Feelings, ResBang 2016, ghost au, so many ghost puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 22:05:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 65,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9568778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunar_Resonance/pseuds/Lunar_Resonance
Summary: Born with the ability to talk to the dead, Maka Albarn lives in the shadow of two worlds. She grows up reveling in the ghostly company until tragedy strikes. As the last threads of her parents’ marriage rip apart in the fallout, she vows to never speak to a ghost again.Her promise is tested four years later when Maka is struck by a car and wakes up to find herself bound to a strange boy called Soul, who is confused, sarcastic, and above all, very dead.





	1. In my end is my beginning

****The setting sun turns the sky into a canvas of murky blood red by the time the first guests for the Halloween ball arrive at the mansion, dressed in costumes so garish and obnoxious Soul is unsure what they are. From the second floor landing, he ghosts their movement to the rear patio and steps out onto the balcony overlooking the patio and garden.

The garden has been transformed into a maze for the ball; the hedges, usually cut low and neat, stretch to the sky and are festooned with streamers and lanterns that chase away the deepening dusk. Propping his elbow on the railing, Soul rests his chin on his hand and watches as more and more people gather on the patio lining the garden. He spies the silver of his mother’s costume in the growing crowd; her head twists from side to side as she flits from guest to guest and he knows she’s looking for him.

Guilt pricks at the back of his neck-he should be down there greeting guests along with her. His tongue runs over the sharp points of his teeth, which have always grown back no matter how many times they’re been filed down; they are the thread that give people an opening at pulling apart the rest of his flaws. More than that, they are his constant reminder that there has never been a time he belonged, that there has never been a time when something wasn’t very wrong with him.

The idea of playing the host and forcing conversation with people all evening long while he pretends this fact doesn’t exist is the same as jabbing white-hot needles through his skin.

Gritting his teeth, Soul wrenches himself away from his thoughts and turns his attention back to the patio. The costumes have become more and more ridiculous, and he spots one guest entirely covered in purple feathers. He pulls at the sleeve of his suit, fingers fidgety with regret over his insistence on not wearing a costume. He’d figured simply smiling would be enough of a costume, but he hadn’t counted on people taking his parents’ suggestion to dress up seriously.

Some of the guests examine the garden hedges; the ones lining the patio have been cut in the shape of predators from around the world, fangs bared in an exaggerated grin rendering tame their dangerousness and provoking no real alarm. They and the rest of the world are bathed in a muted twilight as the iron gray clouds that have ebbed and flowed all day long return in full force Those same clouds had sent Soul’s mother into a frenzied fit of panic and emergency preparations earlier and now he is fairly certain their party would be able to withstand the end of the world.

The change in weather is swift as the clouds roll in, artificial night smothering the world in one fell swoop. Soul waits for the soft pitter-patter of raindrops on the ground, but no rain falls from the sky, despite the distant rumble of thunder and the wind heavy with moisture blowing in his face. He is still gazing up at the sky when he notices something else tugging on the edges of his senses from behind him.

Soul turns. He sees nothing, but a voice in his head whispers that there is something waiting for him in the silence and empty air. The logical side of his mind scoffs at his fear but he doesn’t move to head inside, palms going clammy.

Again, the same sensation pulls at him from where he had been facing, and again he turns and sees nothing, but he can catch hold of it now.

Whatever it is, it’s alive. It’s as opaque and weightless as smoke, but its presence bears down on him like an iron weight, stretching the air around him thin with tension like a rope pulled taut. It circles him with a slow patience, and with every loop it makes, it leeches away the substance of reality and wraps Soul in a disconcerting lightness; the trees beyond the garden become warped and wobble in his vision as the border of the balcony loses its distinctness.

The rest of the world abruptly goes dark and quiet, as if it has winked out of existence.

Soul’s heartbeat pounds loudly in his ears and he fights to muffle his breathing, ragged and staccato in the silence. There is nothing for a long time, only the endless circling. But when it comes close enough to touch his skin, he feels it graze against his thoughts, instead and something rotting and raging drags itself across his mind.

And then something soft and small brushes against the backs of his legs before climbing up his body. He stumbles backwards with a strangled yell and trips, pain lighting from his back to his head as he falls hard on the ground.

Soul blinks back stars, groaning, and rolls on his side. As he tries to catch his breath, his hand is nudged by something warm, and he sits up in a rush, vision spinning as he focuses on a pair of golden eyes gazing calmly at him. Letting out a cry, he scrambles away before registering the paws and ears.

The cat’s nose twitches at the noise he makes but it continues to sit completely unperturbed in front of him. Save for its bright eyes, it nearly vanishes into its background with its black fur. Licking its paw once, the cat rises, and in the same movement, it leaps on top of the balcony railing.

For a long moment, Soul and the cat stare at each other.

The cat’s ears raise in alarm as he begins to laugh, shaky and loud with relief. Soul rubs his face with his hands vigorously, replaying the last five minutes in his head; it had been only a cat the entire time. The heaviness in the air still fills him with a sense of unease, but whatever else he had thought he’d felt he can blame on the deluge of nightmares that has been keeping him up for the past three days.

Soul gets to his feet, dusting himself off. The rain that had threatened to fall all day now pours in furious sheets from the sky, and it’s only thanks to the balcony awning that he isn’t soaked. It is his cue to head inside, but after the scare the cat gave him, forced socialization is even less appealing than it had been before.

“Trying to give yourself a cold, I see.”

Biting back a yelp, he whirls around and finds Wes leaning against the frame of the door, amused grin on his face. Scowling, Soul levels a dirty look at him. “What do you want, Wes?”

“That desperate to avoid Auntie Gertle’s cheek pinching?” Wes ignores Soul’s glare and the scorn in his tone with a practiced expertise, waggling an eyebrow at him.

“Among other things,” he mutters pointedly.

“Such as?”

“I’m allergic to people.” He resists the urge to slouch and insteads turns back to watch the rain, discovering the cat has disappeared. Lightning flashes in the distance, illuminating the dark- beyond the cultivated wildness of the garden, the sprawling forest bordering the mansion appears otherworldly. He feigns a yawn. “Aren’t you supposed to be downstairs telling everyone about Europe?”

“And rob Mother of that honor?” Along with a silver spoon, Wes had been born with a silver tongue, and he uses it well. The bells on his jester hat chime together merrily as he steps forward to stand next to Soul-his costume of green and gold would be outlandish on anyone else, but no one else wears confidence like a second skin quite the way Wes does. “I think she’d take my arm off if I tried and I’m too fond of my limbs to part with them.”

Soul presses his lips together to keep from smiling. Despite the distance he’s wedged between himself and Wes in recent months, his older brother is still the only person in the world who can pull Soul out of even his worst moods.

But envy makes him cruel and spite spurs him into speaking without thinking.

“More like Mother would take the arm off anyone who dared to touch her favorite,” he snorts, rolling his eyes and propping his elbow on the railing. He makes the mistake of glancing over at Wes; the perpetual brightness living in his eyes dies away and for just a moment, Soul sees something of himself in his brother’s face.

As quickly as it appeared, it’s gone and Wes’ smile returns. “You overestimate me and underestimate Mother.”

“Maybe.” An apology and a dozen things he’s wanted to confide in Wes swell on the tip of Soul’s tongue, but instead he swallows and asks, “Is Mother the one who sent you to find me?”

“I am not to return downstairs without you even if you are delirious with fever and carrying on a conversation with our great-grandmother, God rest her soul,” Wes replies. The seriousness in his tone is betrayed by the highly entertained expression on his face. “You should be grateful she sent me and didn’t go look for you herself. You’ll get out alive with me.”

“If I’m dead, I don’t have to go downstairs.”

“Bit of a dramatic solution just to avoid going to a party, don’t you think?”

He makes a sound somewhere in between a grunt and a groan.

“Come on, don’t leave me to fend for myself.” Wes begins to cajole at Soul, nudging him on the arm. “When you go to Juilliard next fall, I’ll have no one I actually want to be around for one of these things.”

The knot of doubt and resentment he feels in his chest when he looks at his brother constricts suddenly. “If I get in,” he corrects. “Either way, you’ll still be in Europe.”

Although he dips his head in agreement, Wes adds, “Only if I do well enough, my acceptance into the orchestra is conditional.” Soul’s eyes widen as he hears fear leak into his brother’s voice for the first time in his life.

“You’ll do admirably,” he says after a pause. The words fall awkwardly from his mouth; he is unused to being the one to offer comfort. He stays the fingers starting to worry at a loose thread of his sleeve and forces himself to look at Wes. “I know you will.”

When Wes meets his eyes, Soul doesn’t see a rival like he has for the past nine years and something in him begins to ache. “Thank you.”

His shoulders lift in a half-shrug and he shifts his gaze back to the sky. “I’m only saying what’s true.”

“Regardless.” Wes gives his head a small shake. “Now, for what I came up here originally.”

Soul sighs. “Do I have a choice?”

“Not particularly.”

“Fine,” he says, finally relenting. “But if I disappear midway through the party-”

His brother claps him on the shoulder and leads him away from the balcony. “I won’t say a word.”

As they descend the stairs to the ballroom, a dig in his ribs from Wes pulls Soul’s attention from the dread gnawing a hole in the pit of his stomach. “Mother also wanted me to tell you something.”

It takes a few moments for his words to register, Soul trying and failing to convince himself that not every person looking their way is gawking at him. “What?”

Wes grins at him. “Be friendly or she’ll have your head.”

**\---**

The rain has petered out into a nearly nonexistent drizzle and the moon has begun peeking out through the clouds by the time the music for dancing begins to play. Soul escapes from the endless monologue of Mrs. Shayton with a weak excuses and detaches himself from the neighborhood gossip, disappearing into the crowd before she can protest.

With an experienced finesse, he sidesteps guests, dodges invitations for conversation and loops a wide circle around his parents. Exhaustion has dried up the patience he pretended to have for the past two hours, and he wedges himself in the corner furthest away from the dance floor. Leaning against the wall, Soul crosses his arms, irritation crawling from underneath his skin like a swarm of ants. Even within the shadows, he feels the bright lights of the ballroom picking at him, transforming the soft swell of voices around him into a harsh buzzing that cloys at his ears. Closing his eyes does nothing to dull the desire to leave, but at least he can pretend he is alone.

“Excuse me?”

The choice words that spring to his lips die away as Soul’s eyes fly open and he takes in the girl dressed as a ballerina standing in front of him and fiddling nervously with her fingers. He bites back a sigh, recognizing the expression on the girl’s face. “I don’t know where my brother is, sorry,” he informs her.

“No!” A blush rises in her cheeks and the bows in her pigtails bob up and down as she shakes her head vigorously. “I mean, I was wondering if you would like to dance.”

“Me?” Soul stares at the girl incredulously, thoughts short-circuiting. He says the first thing that leaps to mind: “I don’t dance, bu-”

“It’s all right, I understand!” She backs away and walks off quickly towards the crowd surrounding the dance floor before he can finish the rest of the sentence.

Soul wrestles with himself for a moment before deciding to follow the girl. He is not sure what sparks him to move; he’s rebuffed the advances and invitations of other girls before, but those girls had always been pushed forward by Wes or his mother. He figures he should give a better explanation to this one at the very least.

The girl has melded into the masses of people, and by the time Soul reaches where she disappeared, he sees no sign of her anywhere. He circles the edge of the edge, craning his head back and forth. He’s nearly ready to give up when he catches wind of her voice and turns to see her talking to a group of girls, her back to him.

“You should have seen the look on his face when I asked him to dance,” she is saying to the group. A hint of revulsion enters her voice. “His mouth dropped open and I could hardly keep myself from staring. He really does have fangs for teeth.”

A few of the girls titter and one of them says, “I would have ran away, if I were in your shoes.”

“I almost did.” The girl lowers her voice. “I don’t understand how a circus freak like him can be part of a family like the Evans.”

Another girl pipes up. “And if he had said yes when you asked him to dance?”

“Do I ever refuse a dare, Lillian?” The girl waves her hand. “But I told you he’d say no.”

Soul turns and walks away, still unseen. The girl’s words provoke only a distant sort of pain; they are the same words he’s been telling himself for years, after all, and he has had plenty of time to get used to their truth. Even the disappointment turning the taste in his mouth bitter is all too familiar.

It’s everything else that follows that he can’t stand.

He makes for the doors leading out to the garden, offering a broad smile to anyone who looks like they want to talk to him.

Smiling has always felt unnatural and strange, something he can trace back to the shame over his appearance bred early on in his childhood. While the mask of apathy and indifference he’s crafted for himself sits well on top of it, smiling does not.

But he smiles now and does not stop until he slips outdoors.

Cold air nips at Soul’s face and hands as he steps out onto the patio. He tilts his head up to the sky-a fine mist still wafts down from above but the cool haze is soothing, shimmering and catching in the moonlight.

He continues to stand there on the patio for a moment, then he begins to walk, past the garden and into the rained out maze. The grass crunches underneath his feet as Soul passes the animal-shaped hedges which cast monstrous shadows on the ground.

The maze is a muddled patchwork of darkness and flickering candlelight of the few lanterns that managed to stay lit, most of the moonlight blocked out by the slowly receding clouds; Soul lets those guide his path, roaming aimlessly and turning in the direction of the light when the path gets too dark for him to make out.

Somehow he stumbles upon the center of the maze in a matter of minutes, something that would have taken much longer if he had actually been trying. Sitting on the stone bench resting in the very center, Soul gazes up at the full moon overhead, finally free from the rainclouds, and listens to the silence.

Once, when he was a child, he and Wes had been allowed to go guising with the town children and then to the Halloween festival afterwards. There he had met a lady from a traveling troupe who had claimed that everyone’s soul had a color to it and she could see them. She had offered to tell him the color of his but Wes had called him away before he could answer.

The thought had stayed with him over the years, and some nights he would stay up and wonder what color his soul was, though he had never been able to decide on a color.

Now he knows: in a world full of color, he had been born a dull and faded gray.

Something pounces onto the bench next to him and he leaps up, nearly tripping over his feet.

A soft meow halts his hasty retreat and he turns, recognizing the pair of golden eyes immediately. He scowls at the cat. “You again.”

The cat meows in reply, and he is sure it is lined with smugness.

His heart still thuds in his chest as Soul steps closer to the cat. There is something strangely human and deeply unsettling in its gaze, which is focused steadily on him. In the clear light of the moon, he sees that its fur is actually the deepest purple.

“I’ve never seen a cat with purple fur before,” he muses, almost lifting a hand to touch the cat before thinking better of it.

“And I’ve never seen a human with fangs for teeth before,” the cat answers matter-of-factly.

Soul stares at the cat, stunned into silence. He’s hearing things, he has to be.

“What’s wrong?” The cat rises and pads her way to his end of the bench. “Cat got your tongue?”

He gapes open-mouthed at the cat for several moments before he can find the words to form a cohesive sentence. “Cats don’t talk,” he says finally.

“Really?” the cat asks interestedly. Her tail brushes against his arm as she paces past him back and forth. “I wonder how I’m talking then.”

“I-” Soul shakes his head and attempts to blink away the shock. If his mind has finally cracked, it makes odd choices about hallucinations. “I didn’t know cats could talk.”

“There are lots of things I imagine you don’t know,” the cat answers. She jumps lightly onto his lap and eyes him with an excited curiosity. “Although you’re the first human I’ve found in a long time that can understand me.”

He frowns down at the cat. “Have you met many humans that could?”

“There were many who could a long time ago but then they left,” the cat says, making herself comfortable in his lap. “Rather, they were swallowed up by the abyss.”

Soul understands nothing, but considering he’s carrying on a conversation with a cat, he simply nods. “Have you met anyone else since then?”

“Only one,” the cat answers, pausing. She sniffs, kneading his legs with her paws. “But he’s mean to me and not fun to play with at all, like you are.”

Her words remind him of the events from earlier and he scowls, picking the cat up. “If you call what you did to me playing, then I don’t think I’d want much to do with you either.”

“Put me down!” The cat thrashes her legs furiously, paws batting at his arms, but he holds onto her firmly.

“Do you have a name?” he asks.

“Ye-yes.” Her movements slow to a stop and her head tilts to the side. “Or I think I did.” She begins to squirm again. “I don’t know!”

“All right, calm down.” Soul sets her back down on the bench and she instantly turns her back to him and begins to groom herself. More cautiously now, he asks, “How did you do it earlier?”

She looks up, twisting her head to look back at him. “Do what?”

“You know what.” The feeling of something breathing against his mind still echoes as Soul stoops down so he can look at her face to face. “Get in my head.”

“That wasn’t me,” the cat claims. “That was-”

She breaks off, ears perking up.

“Was who?” Soul attempts to grab her attention but her eyes are focused on something he can’t see. “Who was it?”

“Quiet,” the cat hisses, stiffening.

Soul opens his mouth to argue when he registers a familiar heaviness needling at him; his body goes cold and his heart begins to pick up speed. After several tense moments, he decides to chance speaking, unwilling to repeat what happened on the balcony. “What is it?” he asks in a whisper.

The cat doesn’t answer, back and tail arching, and he’s about to ask again when she jumps off the bench and sprints away.

In the same moment, Soul runs after her, more on instinct than reason-all he knows is that he refuses to be left alone with whatever it is that cut into his mind like a blade slices through water.

He keeps his gaze fixed on her as he tears after her, running into hedges and nearly falling on his face to keep pace with the cat. When they exit the maze, he loses sight of her temporarily before catching sight of her fur winking in the moonlight.

As suddenly as she ran, the cat turns back, flicking her tail. “I told you that you were a lot more fun to play with.”

“This was a game?” Sucking in deep breaths, Soul stares at the cat, dumbfounded for a moment, and then clenches his fists, anger seeping into his voice. “It really was you messing with my head the whole time.”

“No, it wasn’t,” the cat insists. Her tail twitches guiltily. “Perhaps, I used it to get you to play along,” she admits, drawing closer to Soul. She adds quickly, “But Blair would never do anything that would hurt anyone.”

Soul scoffs, but he doesn’t reply.

“How about I make it up to you by telling you what’s been playing with your head?” the cat suggests. Blair pauses and a sly tone enters her voice. “That is, if you can catch me.”

“What?” He frowns. “Hey, wait!”

The cat pays no heed to his words and hurtles off into the forest, vanishing in the bushes.

There is an instant that Soul hesitates and almost listens to the distant voice in his head telling him to stop, turn back and re-enter the party. But Blair is only thing he has come across that is as strange and out-of-place as him, and the curiosity burning in his veins flares. The moment passes and he runs into the forest after the cat.

As the bright lights of the mansion fade behind him and the space between trees constricts, Soul’s footsteps slow and he squints in the semi-darkness, twigs snapping under his feet. He finds the cat’s tracks easily, as if she had marked them specially for him. There is an expectant silence in the air as he treads between the trees, like the forest is holding its breath, but it’s not as ominous as the silence on the balcony.

Soul measures his steps carefully the farther the cat’s tracks lead him into the forest-the moonlight seems to shine brighter in some parts of the forest than others, and it flips from a state of twilight to dusk in only a matter of a few feet. Bushes and tangled undergrowth hamper his progress, snagging on the hem of his pants and staining his clothes a musty brown. He winces when he hears the telltale sound of cloth ripping, the future sting of his mother’s scolding already sharp in his ears, but stubbornness was the one thing he was born with in spades, so he soldiers on.

While he keeps most of his attention on staying on the cat’s path, Soul lifts his head and scans the treeline around him from time to time. Occasionally he thinks he sees a flash of purple or the glow of golden eyes, but every time he looks again, it’s gone. However, he doesn’t mind the game until the clouds from earlier roll in again without warning, plunging him into complete darkness.

Rocking back on his heels, he casts a wary look around him and blinks rapidly. But even when his eyes adjust and Soul can discern shadowy outlines of the trees and bushes surrounding him, he can no longer make out the cat’s pawprints.

He waits for several minutes and then he clears his throat awkwardly, ignoring the knots of dread clawing their way from his stomach to his chest. “Hey-” he calls out for the cat in a tentative whisper- “Hey, I can’t see anymore.”

Again Soul waits before trying again, raising his voice a notch. “Can you hear me? I’m done.”

He receives no answer.

Fear slides an icy noose around Soul’s throat and he takes calming breaths to slow his thoughts and even out his heart’s frantic thumping. His fingers take on a life of their own as Soul thinks, twisting and running through his hair. He is too far in the forest for anyone to hear him nor can he hope that someone at the party will remember him-not only had he made it sufficiently clear to his parents and everyone else who had laid eyes on him that he hadn’t wanted to be there, but his warning to Wes before the party that he’d eventually disappear would keep the one person he could rely on from worrying.

Soul licks his lips, coming to the conclusion he already knew. Still, he does not move from his spot for minutes, weighed down by terror. It’s only when he thinks about what might happen if whatever found him on the balcony and in the maze finds him here that he begins walking.

The cat’s path curved too much for him to tell which direction the mansion is in so he fixes his steps in what he hopes is a straight line and prays that the forest isn’t as big as it feels. Its silence isn’t nearly as soothing now. There is a chilling emptiness in the air, as if every living creature had picked up and left; not even an owl calls in warning when Soul gets his sleeve hooked on a tree branch and lets out a piercing yelp.

Yanking himself free, he continues to walk, shuffling forward slowly. Left alone with his thoughts, he realizes that in the handful of times he ventured into the forest with Wes, it had always been active and noisy, brimming with life. And where it had felt the forest had been holding its breath before, it now feels like it’s waiting to swallow him whole.

Soul walks faster and tries to think less.

The clouds that turned his world into pitch black and crushing silence make it impossible for him to mark the time, and it feels like eternity has wound and unwound itself before the forest finally begins to thin. His steps quicken into a jog and when he spots the open ground in front of him, he breaks out into a sprint; as soon as he is clear of the trees, he comes to a grinding halt, doubling over and gasping for breath.

Open air is a calming balm to his mind and body as Soul straightens. It is almost as dark outside of the forest as it was inside and the air is humid and dense rather than earthy and dry, crackling with the invisible energy of the coming storm. The silence pervading the forest diffuses around Soul and feeds into the apprehension pricking at the back of his neck as he recognizes where he is, eyes widening.

Soul spins around slowly - the boglands yawn widely in front of him in an endless patchwork of marshy land and water, made lusterless by the rolling clouds above his head. A wordless whisper seeps from the ground and into the air, as if inviting him to listen to its secrets, and mud clings on his shoes and squelches noisily as Soul continues to turn in circles at the edge of the bog, breath marking the air with just visible puffs.

Wind, bitter and angry, lashes and bites at exposed skin as he comes to a stop and gazes out at the surface of the water stretching out in front of him, smooth as glass. He has only seen the boglands from the road to town; both he and Wes had heeded their parents’ words when they warned them not to go wandering into the bog--there had been too many tales of children getting lost and drowning for either of them to dare to disobey them.

Even without the warnings, Soul was particularly wary of the marshlands, and it had been more than the fear of getting lost forever in its swamps. There was something watching and waiting for him in the bog, presence breathing down his back every time he passed the marsh from the road. Only Wes had taken him seriously when he mentioned it, and even then, there’d been little he could do.

When Soul found the real demons in his head, he forgot his fear, but it returns now, a lead weight in his gut. There is something wrong about how the bogwater refuses to ripple even with the increasing uptick in the wind’s tempo, something he doesn’t care to think more about or investigate.

Instead, he pours his attention into scouring the landscape for the Witching Tree, a lone tree that grows in the middle of the swamp. The tree is rumored by the more superstitious to be held up by magic, but more importantly, its branches point in the direction of the road. His father had told Soul once when he was small that if he ever found himself lost in the bog, all he had to do was find the tree to find his way home.

It takes many minutes of pacing the marsh’s waterline before Soul spies a lone crooked shadow sticking up in the bog. The ground scrunches as he scrambles to where he can see the tree more clearly. However, the closer he gets, the more the tree’s outline shifts and grows in size until he comes to a stop directly in front of the tree and sees that it is not a tree at all.

Standing at the edge of the bog, Soul stares at the house sitting in the middle of the water.

Light shines from the second story windows of the small, dilapidated wooden house; there is something hard and caustic and not quite natural about the way the glare of the light burns on the water.

 _Danger_ , Soul hears dimly from a voice in the back of his head, while another voice needles at him to run, but he’s transfixed in place by the house, something about it anchoring him to where he stands.

Then, the lights wink out and he’s blinking in the darkness, spell broken. He swivels around, unsure whether to run back into the forest or continue searching for the tree, when he catches hold of something moving behind him.

Soul’s vision swims in stars and blinding light as something hard and heavy cracks against his head. They stretch out invitingly in front of him for a moment before the world turns to night.

**\---**

Soul returns to reality in bits and pieces, a sharp pounding inside his head peeling back the darkness over his eyes.

A tiny groan escapes from his mouth as he rolls from his back to his side, temples throbbing. He’s still on the ground, but the floor underneath him is hard and unyielding, and the wind has been replaced by the popping sounds of a fire crackling to his left. Along with a familiar heaviness beating down on his senses, he knows that he’s inside the house in the middle of the bog.

Soul’s eyes fly open and a different kind of darkness greets him. The cloth of a blindfold brushes against his face as he strains to see. His heart crawls in his throat when he moves to pull the blindfold off and coarse rope binding his wrists and ankles together cuts into his skin. Distantly, the part of him that’s clinging to his sanity tells him that everything that’s happened has to be some kind of joke, but he knows it’s not, _feels_ that it’s not, and cold panic sweeps through his veins, drowning out every other feeling. Squeezing his eyes closed to keep himself grounded, Soul struggles to push himself up into a kneeling position, inhaling deeply and immediately choking on the acrid taste of charred flesh.

There is an instant that Soul can nearly feel the singed muscle and bone in his mouth and then the hold on his composure shatters; he doubles over and heaves his dinner onto the floor, continuing to retch until his stomach is aching and his throat is burning. Panting, he kneels, slumped over, and gags as he gulps down air to get rid of the stinging sensation in his throat, but stays hunched long after the feeling fades away.

A voice from the working area of his mind prods at him, demanding that he get up, and with effort he straightens. The stench of burnt skin is still heavy on his tongue but there’s nothing left in his stomach to throw up, so he cuts his breaths short and shallow and turns his attention to the rope tying his hands together.

It’s tightly knotted, and the fabric of the rope doesn’t stretch much, but there’s enough room for him to wiggle his hands. He maneuvers carefully and works through the knots for several minutes until the rope comes loose in his hands, and a sigh of relief breaks the silence.

Soul rips off the blindfold and blinks in the light coming from the fire dancing in the fireplace across the room. It is startlingly normal with its walls lined with bookcases, but there is a dread seeping from the walls that laces around his body and constricts the more he looks around.

Freeing himself of the ties around his feet, he paces the perfect circularity of the room, which borders on unnatural. The titles of the books filling the shelves are completely unrecognizable, written in a language that vaguely resemble runes, while the books themselves seem to murmur to Soul in their own tongue of ink and paper. The eerie translucency of the room’s edges, like it has been unhooked from reality, only increases the unsettling feeling spreading throughout his body.

He’s so busy trying to decipher the titles of the books and avoiding looking at what’s burning in the fireplace that it’s not till he makes a complete circle of the room that Soul notices all of the shadows have disappeared from the walls and are gathered in front of him.

The shadows roil when he notices them, and go shapeless for many moments before they reform.

His piano instructor’s shadow shakes his head in disdain. “Not good enough.”

Soul whirls around for the door, for a window, for any escape; the shadows rematerialize.

The voice of the girl with the bows is cutting. “Freak.”

There is no door, not even a window.

“A burden,” his parents sigh.

He’s trapped.

Other shadows begin to chime in, mirrors to his thoughts, and the tangled mass of voices swells and grows until it’s all he can hear, even when he screws his eyes shut and presses his hands over his ears. Blindly, Soul backs away into the middle of the room, and like a switch, his reflex to detach and withdraw flicks on, and he is suddenly very calm.

His heart still skitters, but his hands are steady as he drops them to his sides. The voices are music, discordant and harsh, and he is a musician, even if he is second-rate and strange, and a sense of being far away consumes him as he connects and weaves a song from the shadows in his head.

The song rises and swells many times until it reaches a splitting crescendo, and then, one by one, the shadows go silent. They return to their spots on the wall, save for one. Soul turns his gaze to the shadow that remains - there is one last note that needs to be played.

His shadow finally speaks. “A mistake.”

“A mistake,” Soul echoes quietly.

“That is an interesting set of teeth you have there, boy.” A voice drips from the shadows on the ceiling, and a human-shaped shadow detaches itself from the wall and lands on its feet on the floor with a solid thud.

Cold fear grips Soul in a paralyzing embrace. This is the thing that was with him on the balcony.

“It’s almost over, I promise,” the shadow figure says, waving a hand. The shadows dissipate from its body. “I wouldn’t put you through all of that just for fun.”

Jagged teeth flash at Soul. “Not today, anyways.”

He wills his legs to move, but he’s frozen in place.

The yellow-haired man approaching him looks almost ordinary. Then the man smiles and jagged teeth, too similar to Soul’s, bear down on him in a feral grin.

“Now, kid, I pride myself on being an honest fellow,” the man says casually as he comes to a stop in front of Soul, “So that’s why I’m telling you this might hurt a lit-”

He pauses. “No, that’s a lie.”

Steel winks at Soul as the man pulls a knife from his pocket. “This is going to hurt a lot.”

**\---**

He’s lying on the ground again.

_Hasn’t it always been this way?_

A scorching heat blossoms in his chest and picks at his skin and soul but it’s not the same pain that was consuming him a few seconds ago. He wrenches an eye open-he’s not in the circular room anymore and the man with the knife is gone. A grunt escapes from his lips as he tries to move his arm and only manages to twitch his fingers.

_It’s pathetic how easily you fall._

He tilts his head upward towards the voice to see his own shadow sneering down at him. “Aren’t you more than this?”

Licking his lips, he finds he has nothing to answer, and instead he attempts to move again and only succeeds in dragging himself half an inch across the floor.

He has to get up.

The fire in his chest travels to his lungs as he dredges up all his strength to lift himself a few inches off of the floor, and crumbles as soon as he tries to rise, collapsing back on the ground.

“I can’t,” he wheezes.

“You _won’t_ ,” his shadow hisses. “You’re a coward, keeping your face pressed against the floor as you reject everything and everyone so no one will see just how hard you’re trying. Stand UP.”

When he doesn’t answer, his shadow disappears.

He lies unmoving on the ground, but the words of his shadow lingers in his ears. He’s sunken, fallen, low as he can go, and part of him whispers that it’s perfect for someone like him, but another part of him rails at him to stand.

“Get up.” The words rattle off his lips.

Anger takes too much energy, but hate costs him nothing, and he shoves the words like knives under his skin. “Get up.”

He stays prone on the floor.

“Help me.”

He can’t remember the last time he asked for help, and his words are more air than sound, but he’s never wanted anything more than he does right now, and he mouths them over and over. “Helpmehelpmehelpmehelpmehel-”

Strings loop around him and draw him up, bringing him back to life.

He looks up at his savior, but their face is shrouded in darkness. A shiver shudders through the strings and a new voice, soft and gentle, murmurs, “I think I’ll keep you.”

So long as he’s standing, he doesn’t care what happens to him.

The strings tug on him once and his thoughts disappear.


	2. Saudade

### Saudade

**Noun; a Portuguese, untranslatable word romanticizing nostalgia in its purest form. This beautiful feeling captures the yearning for someone or something that you love, which is now lost. It is a melancholic longing.**

\---

It is their voices Maka hears first.

They start the Halloween she turns three, hushed voices belonging to no one flitting from one corner of her room to the other and back again, visiting her right after Mama and Papa tuck her into bed for the night.

She sits up in her bed and listens attentively the first night they arrive, hands clasped loosely against her teddy bear as her eyes light from one end of the room to the other. The voices are a constellation of garbled sound and invisible movement, ringing against her room’s walls, but possess a mystery far too intriguing for her to be terrified. For the rest of the night, she tries to catch hold of the voices’ words but there is a muffled and hazy quality to the them, as if they’re coming from another world.

The next night Maka tries talking to the voices, heart thrumming nervously as she greets the empty air in front of her with a cautious hello. There is a collective pause in the whispers and then a sudden flood of eager babbling above her head. The excitement in the voices pulls a delighted laugh from Maka, chasing any wariness away, and she scrambles to her feet, wobbling on the mattress as she walks in a circle and scours the ceiling curiously, seeing nothing. Like last night, the same fog from the previous night smears the voices’ words into an indistinguishable mess of incoherent notes, pitched high and low, and eventually the voices peter out into disappointed nothingness.

“Don’t worry,” she declares, leaping off the bed. “I’ll find you!”

An hour later, her parents open her bedroom door to find her searching and rummaging through her closet. It is the first of many nights where they catch her out of bed “looking for the whispers,” and Maka only stops when they threaten to take away her bed and put her back in her crib. For weeks, she talks to the voices every night and while they answer every time, whatever separates her and the voices clouds and blurs their words so she can never make out what they’re saying.

She slows and stops her attempts to communicate as the months pass and simply listens to the whispers-they carry a soft shushing quality that sings her to sleep like a lullaby, wrapping her in a cocoon of song, and soon listening to the voices is the only way she can fall asleep.

The shadows make their appearance exactly one year after the voices. Maka is nearly asleep when she hears her windows rattling and sits up to see shadows squeezing their way into her room. They halt when she intakes sharply but sudden dread oozing down her back keeps her from calling out to them like she did with the voices.

She screws her eyes shut when one of the shadows darts across the ceiling and comes to a stop on the wall right above her head. There is weight to the shadow-its presence thickens the air above her and leeches the warmth from the room. A low and guttural noise comes from the shadow in slow, even sweeps, and its rasp slithers against her skin, like it is its own monster. She nearly twitches but fear keeps her prone on the bed. Besides her, the voices have gathered, nearly silent save for muted bubbles of whispers, as if they don’t want to be heard either, and she silently wills for them not to leave her.

The shadow stays perched above her for another long moment before creeping away with a sound that’s like nails scratching on glass. Maka dares to peek out a few minutes later, and through slitted eyes she watches as the shadows make their home on her room’s walls and ceiling and scuttle into her closet when morning breaks hours later.

When Mama asks her why she looks so tired at breakfast, she tells her about the shadows and what they did. Her mama tries to explain that they were only nightmares and she only thought they were real, but when Maka insists, her papa is the one to relent, leaning forward to ruffle her hair. “When we’re at the store, how about I get you a brand-new flashlight?”

Maka doesn’t protest against him touching her hair like she usually does; she pauses and remembers the way the shadows had ran away from the sunlight. Then she nods.

**\---**

That night, the number of shadows in her room doubles and the room is plunged into an unnatural and pitch darkness, save for the moonlight coming in through her windows. Maka doesn’t use the flashlight nor does she call for her parents. The small beam of light can’t keep all the shadows at bay at once and she doesn’t want to find out what the shadows will do if they discover she is awake.

Clutching the handle of her flashlight so tightly her fingers start to ache, she tries to focus on the voices, which are huddled next to her, fails terribly and watches the shadows instead. She figures out that the shadows are blind from the way they bump into each other repeatedly and how they don’t pay her any attention unless she makes a noise. For the rest of the night, she stays still as a statue underneath her Minnie Mouse bedsheets.

In the nights that follow, Maka resolves to keep her blankets hoisted high over her head and her eyes snap shut as soon as her papa closes the door, but sometimes curiosity overtakes her fear and she opens her eyes just enough to see the shadows. They don’t do much but writhe in the patches of moonlight that stream through her window, which doesn’t seem to have the same effect on them that sunlight has. As they flicker and undulate across the walls and ceiling, the same noise that came from the shadow that inspected her the first night emanates from them all. It grates against her ears and digs underneath her skin like a nightmare brought to life, stalking her into her dreams and drowning out even the whispers.

Every morning she tells her parents about the shadows but they only repeat the same talk about nightmares or how her overactive imagination is getting the best of her and buy her a nightlight to go along with the flashlight. While they always hear her out when Maka comes running in their bedroom with the same stories, as more and more time goes by, the patience in their voices grows thin and their replies get shorter. So when she gets tired of being afraid after close to a year of living with the shadows, Maka decides to take matters into her own hand and plucks up the courage one night and asks them to leave.

Since they first arrived, the shadows stop moving, their hissing comes to a gradual stop and Maka realizes she has made a mistake. Although none of the shadows can see, nor have anything resembling a face, she knows they’re staring at her, and that there is no kindness in their scrutiny.

For a moment, the silence persists and the trance between her and the shadows holds and then they begin peeling from the walls and dropping from the ceiling.

A shriek rips from Maka’s throat. Seconds like eternities pass in the time it takes for her to grab her flashlight from underneath her pillow but neither her mama or papa come running. She manages to turn on her flashlight but the light does nothing except prompt an enraged buzzing from the shadows closest to her, drawing them directly to her bed.

Frantically, she hauls her covers over herself and shoves her head under her pillow, a throbbing numbness pulsing in her fingertips and her heartbeat roaring in her ears. The buzzing climbs to a peak as the air around Maka abruptly turns frigid and most of her blankets are yanked away with ease. Heavy claws paw for her through the sheets and she lurches away and accidentally hurls herself off the bed.

Her flashlight is torn out of her grasp as she lands hard on the ground and skitters across the floor. The sound scatters the shadows, which have swarmed her bed, and she seizes the chance to roll back to the bed, jamming herself in the tiny space between her bed and the floor.

Maka’s breaths come out shaky and shallow as she watches the shadows pace angrily around her room, screeching furiously, and she struggles to silence them. She is safe if she is quiet, she tells herself, and she is so focused on not making any noise at all that it’s not until she has stopped trembling that she realizes the darkness underneath the bed is breathing in time with her.

She screams as something raw and decaying wraps around her ankle; she kicks hard, openly sobbing as she crawls away, but the shadow is much stronger than she is, and it drags her halfway back under the bed again. Her fingers scrabble to find anything she can hold onto. lace around her bedpost, but one pull from the shadow nearly breaks her grip.

Then as suddenly as it started, the shadow’s attack on Maka stops, and the hand wrapped around her ankle disappears. But even though silence descends upon the room and the air lightens and warms, Maka stays on the floor, face buried in her elbow.

“It’s over, dear.”

Shock makes her head lift, and an old lady crouched in front of her gazes down at Maka. She is short and plump with a cheerful face and dimples that deepen as her smile widens. Her voice reminds Maka of her grandma. “You’re safe now.”

Without answering, Maka inches out from underneath the bed and away from the old lady, brushing her tears from her face. The woman’s voice rings familiar as one of the voices before the shadows arrived but she is wary, eyes moving up and down her face. The old lady doesn’t reprimand her for being rude but continues to look at her kindly. “I was wondering when you would be able to see me.”

She pulls her attention from the bluish-grey tint marring the woman’s skin and stands up. When Black Star’s dog got hit by a car a few months ago, her mama had explained death to her and what it meant. Maka’s gaze moves back to the old woman’s face. “You’re dead.”

“Yes.” Moonlight ripples through the old lady like water as she rises and nods once. Her neck wobbles strangely, like a top. “Does that scare you?”

Maka hesitates. Confusion knots her mind with a million questions, but talking to a dead old lady isn’t half as terrifying as what just happened. “I don’t think so,” she says finally. One of her more urgent questions bubbles to her lips. “Are the shadows also dead?”

“They are.” The old woman’s face tightens. “But very wrong. They don’t belong here.”

Maka has no idea what she means by that but she nods, toes curling as she peers around the old lady. “And they’re not coming back?”

The woman’s voice becomes reassuring again. “So long as we’re here, we won’t let them come back.”

“We?” Maka eyes her curiously. “What’s your name?”

At this, the old woman steps back. “I am Mrs. Horschenblott.” She gestures behind herself, where a group of translucent people wink into existence, and looks back to Maka. “We’ve all been waiting to meet you, dear.”

A girl clutching another ghost’s hand waves shyly and several of the other ghosts smile broadly at Maka.

She only wavers for a moment before waving back. The dead can be kind too, she decides.

**\---**

It doesn’t take long for Maka to grow accustomed to the six ghosts living in her home-Mrs. Horschenblott and Eliza, the only child in the group, become her favorites and keep her company as she does her homework, and follow her outside when she goes to play. Ernest, a grumpy old man with glasses that remain permanently crooked no matter how many times he adjusts them, prefers to keep to himself in the garden in the backyard, although he gives Maka tips when she is learning to ride her bike without training wheels. April and Henry, a middle-aged couple who died together in a car accident, usually wander around the house, but always join Maka and the others for board game night. The last of the group, a severe-looking woman who only calls herself the Librarian and never speaks much, takes up residence in her mother’s study, but lives up to her name and occasionally appears in Maka’s room to talk to her about books she thinks she would like.

After Maka’s encounter with the shadows, ghosts start turning up everywhere, appearing when she least expects it--in the line at the grocery store, at the movie theater, or in the bathroom of McDonald’s.

Outside of her new housemates, ghosts are transient creatures and Maka never sees one more than once. Some ghosts are as transparent as the ones who live in her house, while others look so much like a living person that Maka doesn’t realize they’re dead until they disappear in front of her or walk through her. Sometimes, her mother or father catch Maka when she’s talking with one of her ghosts, but they always assume it’s one of her imaginary friends, and her experience with the shadows has taught her better than to try to tell the truth.

Then there are the ghosts where it’s not only obvious they’re dead but how they died; she keeps her distance from the people with their insides hanging out of gaping stomach wounds, or who have been so badly burned that half of their face resembles raw hamburger meat.

They’re not malevolent like the shadows-none of the ghosts are-but while she doesn’t mind Mrs. Horschenblott’s quivering neck, at five years old, Maka can’t keep the fear or revulsion that curls in the pit of her gut from being reflected in her face whenever she encounters ghosts with overt death wounds. It doesn’t mesh well with the fact that the vast majority of ghosts hate being reminded they are dead or how they died, so she learns to school her face into one of calm and composure as she gets older, no matter what kind of ghost she sees.

Sometimes she sees things like the shadows, but it’s always during the day and at a distance. She is careful to avoid going into dark spaces and to never acknowledge the things crawling in the darkness. At home, her ghosts keep her safe and she begins to sleep soundly again.

In the beginning, it’s hard to strike up a conversation with unfamiliar ghosts; an electric kind of nervousness always threatens to seal her throat before she says hello, but after the first few times, Maka discovers ghosts are eager to tell their stories. They talk to her like a drowning person claws for air, and although she often does not understand what they are talking about, she nods and lets them speak until their voice dwindles into silence.

When she is seven, Maka begins seeing dead people that are neither ghosts nor shadows; Mrs. Horschenblott, who is the most knowledgeable about ghosts and related things, warns her about them ahead of time, calling them replays, because they are fragments of people’s last moments played daily at the time of their death.

Still, nothing prepares Maka for the piercing scream that shakes her from her sleep at one in the morning. She jerks awake and is immediately soothed by Mrs. Horschenblott and Eliza.

“Only a replay,” the old lady hums, fingers going through Maka as she pats her hand.

“Replay?” Maka repeats groggily as she rubs her eyes, squinting at the ceiling where the screams are coming from the attic. She doesn’t bother calling for her parents-her father has been out for hours and her mother is holed up in her study. “Can you make it stop?”

“I wish,” Eliza sighs as she settles besides Maka. “But we’re stuck with her for the next hour. And again tomorrow night. And the next night. And then-”

“I think I get it.” Maka falls back against the bed and stuffs her head underneath her pillow, voice coming out muffled as she speaks. “Has she always been here?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Horschenblott answers sympathetically. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be able to see them for a while, dear.”

“Me too.”

In the morning, Maka talks her mother into buying her earplugs.

Not a day passes where Maka doesn’t run into a ghost, but she welcomes their stories, especially as her parents’ bickering starts to spark into bigger and bigger fights. She spends hours roaming the park by her house with Eliza and Mrs. Horschenblott looking for ghosts to talk with. But where she once thrilled in the excitement with which ghosts talk to her, she now sees something irreversibly lonely about the way every ghost lays their soul bare as soon as she acknowledges their existence, as if she can fix everything in them that’s broken. It’s much larger than anything she can handle, but Maka tries anyways. However, what the majority of ghosts ask of her when she offers her help is too much for an eight year old to take on. While the most they can do is yell and rage at her, it is the resigned defeat on their faces before they disappear that eats away at her heart.

She breaks one day after a particularly bad refusal, holding in her tears until she is in her room. Mrs. Horschenblott, Eliza, and even Ernest try to comfort her. However, it is the Librarian’s words that stops her tears.

The woman speaks after the rest of the ghosts leave at Maka’s request. “Do you see any of us asking you for favors?”

Maka sits up startled, unaware the ghost had entered the room. “What?”

“Death is a personal journey as well as what they left undone,” the ghost continues, stepping away from the far corner of her room. “You are not required to carry that burden for them.”

Wiping the tears from her eyes, Maka begins to argue, “But if I can help-”

“And what good will it do if you are the one that ends up ruined in the process?” she interrupts. The Librarian’s voice becomes the most gentle it has been in the years Maka’s known the ghost. “You already do more than enough by talking to them. Trust me when I say listening is the best thing you will ever do for a ghost.”

Maka opens her mouth to answer, but the ghost disappears through the floor before she can say anything.

She spends the rest of the afternoon thinking about the Librarian’s words. That night, she digs up a blank journal and begins filling it with the names and details of every single ghost she can summon to memory. If the most she can do is to fill their emptiness is through listening, then she will make sure they are never forgotten, even if she’s the only one who remembers.

Within the journal, Maka also begins compiling everything she has learned about ghosts since she began seeing them and chronicles her observations of the replays she comes across. She writes as much as she can recall of her encounter with the shadows, which, she’s since learned from Mrs. Horschenblott, are actually poltergeists.

By the time she turns eleven, she is on her fifth journal. It’s a permanent accessory, whether it’s in her hand or her bag, and in the short periods of peace between their arguments, her parents take notice of her constant writing and the way she lights up at seemingly nothing. Their curiosity is one of the few things that unite them these days, and from time to time, her mother asks about what Maka writes in her journal, and Maka catches her father looking over her shoulder while she’s writing once.

Although Maka is no longer at the age where she thinks it only takes her word to be believed, it still takes everything to resist the urge to tell her parents she can talk to ghosts. There are moments the words flutter on her tongue, but she knows how they will react, and she refuses to turn into one of the reasons pushing them apart.

It doesn’t stop her from broaching the topic with Black Star though. She asks him if he believes in ghosts one day while they’re hanging from the monkey bars at recess, and he scoffs so hard he chokes on his spit.  

“Ghosts are fairy tales,” Black Star declares once he stops coughing. He drops down from the bars with an exaggerated flourish and lands next to Tsubaki, their other friend. “People only _think_ they exist.”

Maka watches as Eliza sticks up two fingers behind Black Star’s head. She’s slightly disappointed by his answer, but not surprised-it’s close to what she would have thought if she couldn’t see ghosts.

“They could be real,” Tsubaki contradicts quietly. Even though she’s two years older, she prefers hanging out with the pair more than her classmates. She loops the end of her braid around her finger. “The world is a lot bigger than you know.”

“I only believe in what I can see.” Black Star emphasizes his point by plopping his hands on his hips and puffing out his chest.

Tsubaki doesn’t exhibit her usual patience for once. “Then what does that say about your brain?”

Maka laughs along with her at Black Star’s befuddled expression, but she hears the bite in Tsubaki’s voice-with a terminally ill older brother in and out of the hospital, she knows death is more often on Tsubaki’s mind than it is not, and regrets bringing up ghosts in the first place. Even though she knows Tsubaki would be the one to believe Maka about talking to ghosts, raising the hope that she might be able to talk to her brother after he dies is something Maka can’t bring herself to do.

Shortly after that, Maka comes home after school to find her parents waiting for her at the kitchen table with her journals laid out in front of them. Although stories and excuses immediately spring to her lips, she says nothing-she’s no longer at the age where tales of imaginary friends will be accepted.

It’s her father who starts the conversation. He’s home early for once and he gestures to the notebooks, his smile strained and not quite making it to his eyes. “You’ve got a creative imagination, sweetie.”

“I don’t think it’s just imagination.” Maka’s mother rises from the table and crosses her arms. She always looks like she’s in motion even when she’s standing still. Her gaze digs into Maka. “Do you believe all of this?”

Her father stands too. “Of course she doesn’t.”

“Have you read what she’s written?”

“Yes, and they’re only stor-”

“No.”

Maka’s heart begins hammering even faster as both of her parents’ eyes snap to her. She swallows nervously-she’d spoken mostly to prevent another fight and partly due to frustration of being talked about as if she wasn’t there, but even she’s surprised by the heady taste of courage on her tongue.

“I-I believe it,” she says, looking from her father to her mother. “I can see them. I can see ghosts.”

She takes a step forward. “I can see ghosts,” she repeats.

Silence.

Her mother speaks first but she has nothing to say about Maka’s confession. She throws a dirty look at Maka’s father. “Shows how well you know your daughter if you can’t even tell when she’s serious.”

She sweeps from the room without another word.

Maka stares at the floor after she leaves, feeling something in her heart quietly break. She has seen enough of dead things to know that whatever holds her parents together is dying.

Neither she nor her father speak for a moment, and then he steps forward. He kneels on one knee and, though she’s nearly twelve, he still is slightly taller than her, even crouched down.

He looks Maka straight in the eyes. “Do you believe in what you’re saying?”

Nodding, she expects him to try to explain why she’s wrong but instead he just pats her reassuringly on the shoulder. “All right.”

He straightens and as he rises, he says, “Then it’s time to call in the professionals.”

She catches his hand as he starts to move away. “Do you really believe me, Papa?” The name slips out on instinct-she’s long since outgrown using it, leaving it behind in the days when she knew what a family felt like, but today she feels very small.

His eyes soften. “You know I do, kiddo.” He bends back down to look at her face to face, ruffling her hair. “We’re going to figure this out together, okay?”

Maka’s throat is locked tight by years of stories and emotions she’s had to keep silent so she merely nods again, but when her papa puts his arms around her, she leans in for a long time.

**\---**

It’s the loud splutter of an engine backfiring instead of the door bell ringing that announces the arrival of the Debunking Wraiths and Mysteries Analysts, a.k.a. the DWMA.

Maka jumps up from where she sits perched on the couch. Her father yells from somewhere in the back of the house that he’ll be right there; her mother had chosen to go out, refusing to participate in today’s activities. The rejection had stung, but Maka is filled with too much with anxious excitement to mind much of anything; she starts heading towards the front door before abruptly turning back to the living room, where she asked the ghosts to gather.

“It’s going to be fine, dear,” Mrs. Horschenblott says soothingly.

April nods. “We’ll be with you every step of the way.”

“And it’ll be fun to talk other people.” Eliza floats up a few inches from the couch. “Mess with them too.”

“That’s only _if_ these people are the real deal,” Ernest tacks on. “They could be quacks for all we know.”

“You should go answer the door,” the Librarian interrupts. She’s the only one who isn’t sitting on  the couch or a chair, preferring to stand by the window. “They’re waiting.”

“Right.” Maka spins back around. Nervous energy erupts in her stomach in the form of a million butterflies and they all flutter riotously, swelling to a nauseating peak as she unlocks the front door and pulls it open.

Two women and a man stand before the doorway. The woman donned in an all-black business suit sports a severe bob and holds a briefcase, looking more like lawyer than a psychic, although there is something unnaturally sharp-eyed in the way she gazes at Maka. Meanwhile the man on her right looks like he overshot the role-his expression reminds her of a predator who hasn’t eaten in days, tattered lab coat riddled with uneven and jagged stitches that mirror the scars crisscrossing his face.

Only the woman on the left looks like what she imagined when her father said he was bringing in professional ghost hunters. An eyepatch with a strange symbol on it covers up her left eye; her hair shines flaxen even in the weak autumn sunlight and in her aura radiates something otherworldly.

“We’re part of the DWMA’s Spirit and Paranormal Activity Resource Team of Investigation,” the woman with the eyepatch says brightly after an awkward pause. “Or SPARTOI, for short. I’m Marie, this is Azusa and this is Dr. Stein.”

In a dry voice, the man adds, “I’m not that kind of doctor though.”

The woman called Azusa sighs. “Do you always feel the need to say that?”

“I would find it criminal if I didn’t.”

Maka is still fixed on what Marie said. “So there are more people than just you three?” she asks curiously.

Azusa glances over at Marie before she answers. “Yes, there are a few more.”

“Someone else was meant to come,” Stein says. “But after he called out of the blue, I couldn’t resist checking on how my old roommate Spirit was doing.”

Maka blinks. “You know my father?”

There’s a creak and rustle as her father appears besides her and Stein comments, “I’m slightly hurt you haven’t told your daughter about our friendship, Spirit.”

“It was a _very_ old friendship,” he replies, placing a hand on Maka’s shoulder. “That doesn’t have much relevance to now.” There’s a fidgety edge to his voice and he doesn’t quite meet Stein’s eye. “You don’t look like you’ve changed much.”

“No, just more scars,” Stein agrees breezily.

“If you want to have a social visit on your own time, so be it,” Azusa interrupts. “But not on mine.”

“What Azusa means is that we’re ready to start the walk-through of the house now,” Marie corrects hastily.

Stein speaks as the three step into the house. “Spirit mentioned you kept journals over the phone, is that true?”

When Maka nods, he says, “I would like to read through them.”

“I’ll go find them,” Spirit chimes in eagerly, leaving before anyone can say anything else.

Maka’s heart erupts in her chest as she leads the three to the living room but she refuses to let her nerves take control and clasps her hands together to keep them from shaking. However, she can’t hide the disappointment that grips her in an icy embrace when she looks from the ghosts standing in front of the four of them to the investigators’ unchanged expressions.

From next to Mrs. Horschenblott, Ernest hisses, “I told you they were quacks, we’re standing right in front of them and they can’t even see us.”

She opens her mouth but before Maka can talk, Marie says, “I ask that you not tell me anything about what you’ve seen, because it may influence our investigation.”

Anger flicks on like a reflex, but uncertainty chokes the accusation that leaps to her lips-it had taken her a year to be able to see her ghosts, after all, so she nods reluctantly. Her hopes pop back up when she sees Azusa reach into her briefcase but she is let down when the woman only withdraws a pen and notebook.

Her father returns, carrying her journals. He hands them to Stein and steps back next to Maka. “We’ll wait here while you do your, er, investigation.”

Maka speaks up. “Can I go with you?” She looks to Marie. “I promise I won’t give anything away.”

“She can walk with me,” Stein breaks in pleasantly. He has Maka’s topmost journal open, eyes scanning the page with a clinical disinterest. “We’ll trail a room or two behind you two while we chat.”

He turns to her father. “Would you care to join us, Spirit?”

“Ah, I-“ His hands flutter, throat bobbing up and down as he swallows. “I think I’ll wait here, wouldn’t want to get in your way.”

The half-smile Stein wears deepens slightly at Spirit’s reaction but his voice remains monotone. “However you want.”

They begin in the kitchen, where Eliza lounges a few feet above the counter. Again, Maka watches Azusa and Marie for their reaction and again, their faces don’t change, gazes gliding over Eliza as if she weren’t there.

She and Stein split off from the psychics when they head into the hallway of the ground floor. Maka trails behind him at first but eventually curiosity gets the best of her and she falls into step with him. “You don’t see ghosts like the other two?”

“No,” Stein replies as he continues to flip through her journals. “I’m more of a knowledge collector.”

It’s not an answer she expects. “Knowledge for what?”

“Experiments.”

She waits for him to elaborate and when he doesn’t she asks, “Are they what gave you the scars?”

Stein doesn’t answer right away. “It wasn’t the experiments.” He pauses. “It was the many accidents that went along with them. So I suppose that would also make me a scientist.”

Maka’s brow furrows as they head upstairs and turn down a hallway. “What kind of experiments do you do?”

Chuckling, he shakes his head. “I don’t think your father would be pleased with me if I told you that.”

“You don’t look like you’d be too bothered by that,” she points out.

Stein raises his head and fixes Maka with a half-amused stare before saying, “Maybe not, but my boss would be bothered.”

“Why?”

“So many questions.” He returns his gaze to the journal he was reading. “I think it’s my turn to ask a few questions. For example, when did you start seeing ghosts?”

“Um-” Maka tugs on the end of her pigtail as she thinks. “I don’t know. For as long as I could remember. Although they were just voices in the beginning.”

“Yes, I remember you noting that.” He taps the journal. “Where are their obituaries?”

“I-” Her words tangle on her tongue. “What?”

“Their obituaries,” Stein repeats. “Any sign that these ghosts existed in any place outside of your head.”

Heat spreads across Maka’s face and she levels the glare she learned from her mother at him. “Are you calling me crazy?”

“Not at all,” he says. “I merely think you need better evidence to prove what you’re saying in these journals is true.”

She frowns at the point he makes. “So does that mean you believe me?”

“I neither believe or disbelieve you,” Stein replies. “All hypotheses are valid at the outset of every experiment, but require thorough investigation before anything close to belief can be attained.”

Everything that comes out of the doctor’s mouth is knotted with questions rather than answers-Maka now can see why her father had shrunk away from joining but she refuses to be intimidated. “Then why are you here?” she challenges. “You can’t see ghosts and I’m sure Azusa or Marie could ask me these questions.”

Stein pauses midway on the stairs on their way back to the first floor. “I said I’m a knowledge collector,” he says, still staring down at the journals. “And yes, I also said I don’t see ghosts.” His eyes flick over to her face, glasses flashing. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t see things that most others aren’t able to see.”

A piercing feeling suddenly writhes beneath Maka’s skin and she fidgets uncomfortably. She longs to leave but she refuses to be the one who breaks eye contact first.

Stein straightens after a beat later, chuckling a second time. “You would be a good mind to have in my lab,” he says, starting to walk down the stairs again.

Maka doesn’t follow. “What do you see then?”

The scientist stops again but he doesn’t turn around, twisting his head enough to glance at Maka out of the corner of one eye. “I’ve already told you,” he answers. “Think about it.”

He leaves her there, brows knitted together as Maka scours through their conversation for several moments before filing his answer away to puzzle out later.

Marie and Azusa are waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs along with Stein and her father; the ghosts are gathered there as well but like before, neither of the psychics appear to notice them.

“Okay,” Azusa announces after a beat of shared silence. “We’ll need a few minutes to confer before talking.”

“Perfect!” Spirit grabs Maka’s hand before she can question what Azusa meant and pulls her into the living room, ghosts trailing after her. She chooses not to protest and takes a seat on the couch with him, looking discreetly to the ghosts.

They all wear somber expressions. Mrs. Horschenblott shakes her head in reply to her unasked question while Henry says, “We tried talking to them but they couldn’t hear us.”

“A bunch of phonies,” Ernest grumbles.

Maka’s heart sinks in her chest but a quiet acceptance dulls the sting of disappointment-she’d known the moment Marie and Azusa had failed to see the ghosts the first time. She swallows a sigh and grits her teeth instead. Although everything about the investigation was fake, Stein’s point with her not having the evidence to prove she was telling the truth wasn’t wrong, but no matter what it took, she _would_ find it.

A squeeze around her fingers brings her back to the living room, and she looks up at her papa, still holding her hand.  He had his doubts, of that she was sure, but he believed in her despite them and that was enough. Letting out a tiny breath, she taps the floor with her feet in a mindless rhythm and waits for the investigators to return.

Maka shivers as a cold draft abruptly sweeps through the room, chill sinking into her skin.

Her papa notices. “You feel that too?”  He stands, rubbing his arms. “This house is too old. I’ll be right back.”

Maka leans back into the couch as he leaves the room and stares up at the ceiling, continuing to tap her feet against the floor. A flicker of a whisper grazes against her ears and she glances towards the ghosts. “Did you say something?”

They stare blankly at her but before anyone can answer, the investigators re-enter the living room, closely followed by Spirit. Both Marie and Azusa hang back and speak to him in low voices but that doesn’t stop Maka from having a good idea of what they’re telling him.

Stein, on the other hand, heads over to her and hands over the journals. “Here.” He begins to turn and then stops. His voice doesn’t lose its monotone detachment but something keen gleams in his eyes as he glances back at Maka. “I think it would be wise of you to hold onto those.”

It’s as much of a sign he’ll give that he believes her, and she nods, hugging the journals tightly to her chest. With a small nod in return, he turns from Maka and rejoins Marie and Azusa, who have finished talking with Spirit and are already heading to the door without a single look at her.

Maka watches from the window as the three leave, pile into the van and drive off, leaving clouds of smog and exhaust in their wake. She hears the creak of the front door as her papa closes it but doesn’t move until he returns to the living room.

There’s a worn crease in his brow and Spirit gives a tiny grunt as he sits down next to Maka, the smallest glimmer of silver glinting in his hair. She also notices the tiny lines beginning to crinkle at the corner of his eyes and mouth, slowly etching his age in his face.

Her nails bite into her palms and an icy feeling slices through Maka’s veins-she has never noticed her papa’s age before.

Spirit clears his throat, pulling her from her thoughts. “So,” he begins, glancing over at Maka. “We need to talk.”

“I spoke with Marie and Azusa.” He shifts to look at her directly. “They’re not ghosts.” He hesitates before speaking again. “And I think you know that too.”

Everything Maka was about to say crumples in her throat and for several moments, she sifts through her words to find something to say but the only thing that comes out of her mouth is a weak, “I thought you believed me.”

“I do believe you,” he says gently. “I just don’t think that what you’re seeing are ghosts.”

“Then what else can they be?” Adrenaline clears her head and spurs her into action and she’s on her feet now, talking rapidly before Spirit can answer. “They’re real. I see them, I talk to them, they’re _real_.” She has to keep herself from pacing back and forth, clenching her hands. “Why would you call the DWMA if you didn’t think they were real?”

“Because I wanted you to see they’re not.” He stands as well, drawing closer to Maka. “That they’re no such things as ghosts.”

Betrayal is softer than anger, but it hurts more. “So you’re saying I made this up,” she says flatly.

“No, of course not!” His hands flutter towards her, as if to touch her, but she steps back. Hurt flashes in his eyes, but his voice remains soothing. “But you’re smart enough to know that what you’re seeing isn’t real.”

“And if I don’t, then I must be crazy, right?” She turns away from Spirit, unable to look at him or the ghosts. Anger leeches away the last of her shock and buffers the hurt welling in her chest-it’s becoming clear to her why her mother says she can’t trust her father’s words.

“Maka-” A hand touches her shoulder but she shrugs it off.

She turns back around but she refuses to meet Spirit’s eyes. “You only did this to make me feel better,” she says quietly. “But you never believed me.”

When Spirit attempts to touch her again, she leans away. She keeps her eyes fixed on the floor as she heads to her room. “I want to be left alone.”

The ghosts follow her up the stairs but Maka doesn’t speak until she closes the door. She’s still not able look at any of them in the eye. Folding her arms across her chest, she repeats, “I just want to be left alone.”

None of the ghosts argue with her, vanishing one by one. The last to leave are Mrs. Horschenblott and Eliza. They hesitate before the old woman tugs on Eliza’s hand, and then they disappear together.

For many minutes afterwards, Maka stays rooted where she stands. Then she goes to her bed, lies down, and pulls her pillow over her head, listening to the empty silence.

**\---**

The next day is Halloween. When Maka wakes up, she’s hardly feeling better than yesterday-her mother had come in to talk as soon as she’d come home but knowing her mother didn’t believe her had made her words more hollow than comforting.

With a disgruntled sigh, she rolls her blankets back over her head and tries to go back to sleep. The only thing she’s grateful for is that Halloween takes place on the weekend this year, which means she doesn’t have to endure going out to school and mistakenly start talking to a ghost on the playground.

She manages to fall back into a state of half-sleep and hovers on the edge of consciousness and dreaming until she’s prodded back awake by the sharp feeling of sunlight poking at her face through the sheets. Rubbing her eyes, Maka sits up and looks around the room to find she’s still alone.

It’s not surprising-the ghosts have always been able to sense her mood better than anyone else-but she’s still filled with regret at shutting them out. She swings her legs over the edge of the bed and searches for her slippers with her feet-once she’s had something to eat, she’ll go find them, make amends, and then they can figure out what to do together now that her confession to her parents has backfired horribly.

“It’s not fair, is it?” a voice breathes against her ear as she wiggles her feet into her slippers.

Maka jumps to her feet. “Who’s there?”

“A friend.” The voice is high and small, like a child’s, but much colder. It comes from the corner of the room now but its presence is only tangible by an unnatural heaviness in the air that presses down on Maka’s mind like a weight.

She ignores the unease trickling down her back for the moment. “Then why don’t you show yourself?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Maka spies something scurrying across the ceiling, but when she takes a better look, it’s only a spider.

“I’m stuck in between,” the voice sighs, back to her ear again, and it’s like it’s pushing past the ridges of her thoughts and squeezing into the crevasses in between. “I’m neither here nor there.”

“You were there yesterday,” she realizes. “In the living room.”

“Yes,” the ghost answers, an odd echo to its words stretching them out long after the voice stops talking. “I found you then but you didn’t hear me.”

“I’m sorry. I-” She hesitates. “I wasn’t very receptive.”

“I saw what happened.” The voice moves around her in circles. “Such cruel deception on your father’s part.”

“He just wanted to help me,” Maka says defensively. She’s not sure why she speaks for her father when she thought just as much yesterday but she holds firm. “He didn’t mean to hurt me.”

“No, no, of course not,” the ghost’s voice agrees, curling up on her shoulder. “But he still hurt you.”

“Well-” She struggles for a moment before exhaling loudly. “Yes, he did.”

“I can help you with that,” the ghost says.

She frowns. “How?”

“Pull me into this world,” it answers. “If you anchor me here, then everyone will be able to see me and your parents will believe you.”

Maka’s heart leaps at the thought but caution holds her back from saying yes. There are many ways that the voice reminds her of the poltergeists and she proceeds with careful suspicion.

“But how can I help you?” she asks. “I can only see ghosts.”

“There’s something I need to ground myself here, something that I can’t get on my own,” the voice says, moving just in front of her face. “And since you can hear me, you can give it to me and then I’ll do the rest.”

It seems simple enough but still Maka wavers.

“You don’t know the tremendous favor you’d be doing for me,” the voice continues in a soft murmur. “It’s been so long that I’ve been alone, that I’ve had a body, that I’ve forgotten what it means to be me.”

Sympathy for the ghost swells in Maka’s chest despite her doubts but she runs her tongue across her teeth before finally agreeing. “All right.”

“Thank you.” The voice surges close to her face again, thrumming with a glee that doesn’t match its coldness. “You’re too kind.”

Maka masks the jittery discomfort the voice gives her by ducking around and heading towards her door. “Where is the thing you need exactly?”

“Oh, it’s nearby,” the ghost assures her. “It’s in your basement.”

“My basement?” She frowns and pauses, hand on the doorknob. “What’s down there that you need?”

“There’s no time to explain!” An angry impatience ripples through the voice but when the ghost speaks again, its voice is smooth and calm. “What I mean is if I start fading before we get what I need then I might never be able to return.”

“Oh.” The doorknob seems to vibrate under Maka’s hand and she pulls it open. Her unease has turned into something close to foreboding but she’s already agreed to help and she doesn’t go back on promises. “Well, let’s go then.”

There’s no sign of her parents or the ghosts as she makes her way downstairs. Maka muses this aloud and the voice supplies helpfully, “I saw your parents leave a little while ago. They didn’t look happy.”

“They never are lately,” she replies, rolling her eyes, though guilt pricks beneath her skin as she wonders if she’s the cause behind this particular unhappiness. She slows her step when they pass the kitchen, peeking inside for the ghosts and finding the room empty. “Where is everyone?”

“Somewhere outside?” The impatience in the ghost’s voice returns. “I can meet them later.”

“But maybe I should go get them,” Maka suggests. She’s eager not to be alone. “They might be able to help.”

“I’m sure meeting them afterwards won’t make much of a difference,” the ghost snaps. “I can’t  can’t stay in this dimension for much longer.”

Maka gives in without another word. Her sympathy for the ghost is at odds with the ominous feeling growing in her stomach, but she tells herself she only feels wary because of her incident with the poltergeists. Even so, her footsteps falter for the smallest of moments when she opens the door, the musty darkness of the basement looming in front of her. Then she continues forward, tugging on the the cord connected to the light bulb hanging over the stairs.

The bulb refuses to flicker on but there is enough light from the hallway outside to illuminate her way. Maka proceeds slowly, keeping her hand wrapped tightly around the railing. At the corner of her vision, her shadow bounces up and down on the wall as she descends the stairs however when she’s nearly at the bottom, she spots a second shadow next to hers but it’s vanished by the time she turns her head to look at it directly.

Rubbing her eyes, Maka feels around in the air for the pull cord of the second light in the basement. The light is hardly better than the one above the stairs, lightbulb barely sputtering enough light for her to make out more than the shadowy outlines of the cabinets and boxes piled high in the basement.

Maka’s footsteps echo hollowly as she moves between the lopsided stacks of boxes-the air is frigid in the basement, yet it clings to her skin like on a humid day. A small yelp falls from her lips as she nearly trips over the corner of a pile of boxes she didn’t see.

The boxes waver dangerously as she regains her balance and she steadies them with a hand. “I need to go find a flashlight,” she says aloud to the ghost.

“You won’t be needing that,” it answers.

There’s an odd tone to the ghost’s voice. Maka frowns. “Then how am I going to find what you need?”

“Oh, that’s not a problem,” the ghost says. “You already have it actually.”

“I do?” she asks, bewildered. “What is it?”

“Give it some thought, it’s very simple.” The ghost’s voice is in her ear now and again she feels something scraping against her mind but this time it moves deeper in her body like a worm tunneling in mud. “What do you have that I don’t?”

 _Danger, danger,_ a voice in her head trills at her.

Whatever is in her mind is listening-Maka speaks quickly to keep from thinking any further. “A body?” she guesses, muscles tensing as she slides her gaze to the stairs. “But you’re dead.”

“Even more fundamental than that,” the voice answers. The ghost’s words rattle inside of her head. “Think about it.”

“I’m sorry,” Maka says carefully, nervous energy tensing the muscles in her legs as she measures her opening to run. “I really don’t know.”

“You see, I’m not very human anymore,” the ghost says. “At all, actually.” There is a sharpness to its voice that Maka can almost feel jabbing at her ears. “But I want to be.”

Whatever that is digging in her mind releases its grip.

“I want to be,” it repeats.

Maka swallows hard and rocks forward on the balls of her toes, poised to bolt.

Something else breathes inside of her. “That’s why I need your soul.”

She screams and breaks away, lurching towards the stairs. Her fingers brush against the railing just as an unseen force flings Maka into a column of boxes. Stars erupt in her vision as her head cracks against the wall and she lands in a crumpled heap on the ground.

The contents of the boxes rain down on Maka but she only feels the searing pain splitting her head in two, the sudden rumbling of the floor underneath her, and the sensation of _something_ ripping away at something deep inside her body.

She blinks the stars away and forces her eyes open to find herself suddenly swimming in darkness, surrounded by a million writhing monsters ready to devour her.

In her chest, the feeling of being ripped apart intensifies into a single burning point. Maka chokes back the scream that springs to her tongue as she scrambles away on her knees, nails scrabbling against the darkness which has a strange fluid solidness to it.

Silence pounds like a drum against her ears. She’s moving forward into nothingness and her temples throb with the paralyzing weight of the monsters’ stares lying in the darkness. but doing nothing is impossible. The monsters stay still and silent, but when her fingers graze against something soft and leathery, the darkness itself ripples and shakes, knocking her into something very much alive.

Fear lights a fire in her lungs that leaves her breathing ragged and shallow as Maka clambers away and pushes herself to her feet. She spins in a circle, spying a thousand pairs of eyes gazing at her; bile burns in her throat as she comes to a stop and screws her eyes closed to keep from bending over and heaving.

She can’t move now that she knows what’s out there-terror encompasses her entire body and roots her in place. The soles of her feet begin to ache the longer Maka stands frozen in place and nothing happens. Whatever was clawing inside of her-she knows it’s not a ghost or poltergeist by now-has stopped but she can tell by the growing heaviness of her body that it’s still there, although she’s not sure why it hasn’t come after her again.

“Maka?”

Her eyes snap open.

Eliza stands in front of her, peering at her in alarm. “What’s going on?” Her words are distant and full of static and she flickers in and out of the darkness like a dying flame. “One minute you’re here and the next, you’re not.”

It takes every ounce of her willpower to force herself to stay still. “Something’s here,” Maka whispers rapidly. “I don’t know what it is.” Her voice inches higher despite herself, cracking. “I-I thought it was a ghost but it’s not and now I’m trapped.”

Eliza’s eyes widen before she sets her jaw. “I’m going to get the others, I’ll be right back.”

She vanishes before Maka can say anything. Her heart thrums in her chest as she waits for what feels like an eternity passes before Eliza returns with the rest of the ghosts.

Mrs. Horschenblott steps forward, running a hand Maka can’t feel across her cheek. “What happened? Are you alright?”

She opens her mouth to reply but the sound of the Librarian’s voice cuts her off.

“There’s no time for questions,” the ghost says, striding up to the two. “You’re in a demon’s warpspace.” For the first time, she sees something like fear on the Librarian’s face. “It’s in you.”

It’s not a question but Maka still nods. “It’s trying to take my soul.”

“It’s failing,” the ghost says. “But with the way it’s draining your energy to get past your defenses, it won’t be that way for long.”

She swallows her questions, hands going clammy. “What do we do?”

The Librarian crouches down so she’s face to face with Maka. “We’re going to pull you out and when that happens, the demon will be forced out of your body.” The ghost’s voice turns harsh as she lowers her voice to a whisper. “You have to get out of the basement or the demon will strike again.”

“Won’t it just try again?”

“It won’t,” the ghost answers simply.

“But-”

“Listen carefully, Maka.” The Librarian’s eyes drill into hers. “You can never look back, no matter what you hear. Do you understand?”

“I-” she starts.

“Do you understand?”

She pauses and then she nods.

“All right.” The ghosts straightens and turns her head towards to the others. They surround her in a circle with the Librarian standing in front of her. “Close your eyes.”

Maka looks at the ghosts. A strange feeling comes over her like she’s crossed some invisible tipping point. She wants to speak but she doesn’t know what to say so instead she listens and closes her eyes.

The air around Maka thickens, as if frozen solid, but it’s oddly warm and continues to grow warmer and warmer until the air is blazing hot and sweat is running down the sides of her face. Yet there is no pain, only an immense pressure that starts in the pit of her stomach and crawls into her chest. It’s crushing in her lungs, stealing her breath, but still she feels nothing even as a lightheaded dizziness starts to sweep from her head to the rest of her body.

When the pressure travels to her throat, she’s forced to inhale. Maka breathes in the dank air of her basement and her eyes fly open.

She’s underneath the boxes again but from behind her the demon is shrieking, its pull yanking at her feet.

Its screams are muffled but screech like knives against glass. _“Givemeyoursoulgivemeyoursoulgivemeyoursoulgivemeyoursoul.”_

For an instant, Maka’s vision turns dark again and then she hears the ghosts’ voice underneath the demon’s wails. _“Run, run, run. Don’t look back.”_

Determination cuts away at her fear and she kicks and pushes the boxes out of her way, falling forward on her knees. Staggering to her feet, Maka stumbles forward; every step is like swimming in quicksand and she careens from one stack of boxes to another, creating a domino effect of falling boxes, but she doesn’t stop to give the demon a chance to gain ground.

When she reaches the stairs, the demon’s screeching intensifies into a soundless screaming. A deafening crack resounds and sends Maka tumbling into the stairs. Something warm and sticky drips down her arm as she grabs hold of the railing and hoists herself up, half-turning before remembering the Librarian’s warning and spinning around again.

The stairs begin to shake when she reaches the top, nearly rocking Maka off-balance but she seizes the doorknob in time to keep from falling. From the bottom of the steps comes the same splintering noise and the demon’s shrieks are no longer far-off, filling the basement with the sound of its rage.

Panic takes control and Maka slams into the door, shaking the handle, but it doesn’t even twist in her hand.

“Open the door!” She pounds her hands against the panels of the door, driving her foot into the door repeatedly, but it stands firm, refusing to budge. Tears blur her vision as she continues to kick the door. “Help me!”

“Maka, is that you?”

She intakes sharply, raising her head. “Mama?”

Again her mother’s voice sounds from deep within the basement. “Where are you? I can’t see you.”

It’s a trap, her mind warns her but while her fingers stay wrapped around the handle, she loosens her grip ever so slightly.

“Maka, I can’t see anything.” Terror threads through her mother’s voice and her resolve breaks.

She won’t turn around, she promises herself. Letting her hands fall to her sides, she swallows hard and calls out, “Mama, how did you get here?”

“I don’t know, your father and I were going outside and then it went dark.” Maka listens carefully as her mother speaks but there is nothing strange or off about her voice. Franticness slips into her mother’s voice. “I don’t know where he is now.”

The fear in her mother’s voice trumps her own and Maka only hesitates for the tiniest of moments before she swerves around to plunge back down into the darkness.

_“I have you now.”_

A spark of crimson illuminates the stairwell and she catches sight of glowing eyes, jagged teeth and rotting skin clinging to a shell of a broken corpse. Maka’s scream is drowned out by the roar of embers emerging from the spark, feeding hungrily on the wooden slats of the staircase and spreading up the walls and across the ceiling.

Maka smacks back into the door. Smoke cloaks the demon but its footsteps creak ominously on the burning wood. She throws her weight against the door in desperation, ramming her shoulder into it and shaking the handle with both hands to no avail.

The fire fans out rapidly but it comes to a stop just below the step she stands on, flames snapping at her feet before crawling up the sides of the wall. She presses her hand to her mouth and sinks to the floor, as if she makes herself quiet and small enough she’ll disappear.

The demon’s words reverberate in her bones. _“I can smell your fear.”_

An involuntary whimper escapes from Maka-fear murmurs a song of surrender in her ears, binding her arms and legs in place. Screams for help rattle against her teeth but her ghosts are too far away to hear her and all she can do is listen as the demon approaches. The smoke is too thick to spot the demon but it’s close enough she can feel the taste of its scorched flesh on her tongue. She wonders wildly whether her body will look like the demon after it takes her soul.

The thought ignites something stronger than fear in her chest. It burns like lightning in her veins, pushing her to her feet just as the outline of the demon takes shape. The fire recedes as the demon closes the distance between them. Maka balls her hands into fists and glares at the scarlet eyes boring into her: no matter what happens, she will not die cowering in a corner.

The demon pauses on the step below hers, tilting its head at an unnatural angle. It raises a decayed hand and runs a pointed nail down her face. Its mouth splits into a rabid smile. _“You’re mine.”_

“Maka?” Her father’s voice sounds from the front of the house. “We’re home.”

“Papa!” She whirls around on instinct, banging on the door. “Help me!”

The demon’s touch as it seizes her arm is surprisingly fragile, solid only for an instant before seeping into her skin. Its triumphant screech of _mineminemine_ twists in her head before the demon is flung back out of her body.

Maka doubles over, sputtering for breath, as a familiar voice sounds from above her.

“I told you not to turn around.”

She looks up to see the Librarian and the rest of the ghosts hovering in front of her. They form a barrier between Maka and the demon, which lays crouched at the bottom of the steps, but that doesn’t keep the fire from beginning to spread its way back up the stairwell.

“Get out,” the ghost says.

“But-”

“Now!”

Maka spins back to the door; the handle no longer refuses to twist but something jams the door from opening. She shoves her body into the door, feeling it give way slightly. “Help me,” she yells as she slams her body into the door again. The heat of the flames lick at her ankles. “Help _me_!”

A roar from the demon nearly makes her head split open and suddenly the air feels lighter but Maka doesn’t stop screaming for her parents or running into the door, even as she chokes on the scorching heat of the fire drawing closer and closer. Her vision doubles then blurs as she inhales more smoke than oxygen. Summoning the last of her energy, she wavers on her feet before she forces herself to move, watching the basement door swing open as she lurches forward.

The last thing Maka hears as she tumbles out of the basement and into her father is the muffled haze of invisible voices.

They ring with an aching familiarity, reminding her of a lullaby she heard when she was little.

And just like when she was little, she follows their melody into sleep.

**\---**

Maka wakes up to a cacophony of harried voices and flashing lights. Her head buzzes with a fog that tugs her back into unconsciousness but she opens her eyes when she hears her parents next to her.

Shadows edge the corners of her vision and her head is heavy as Maka tries to twist towards her parents. Nothing comes into focus, except the gleam of her father’s hair and the panic in her mother’s voice. Wherever she is, it’s moving fast; a mask covers her mouth, garbling her words as she tries to speak.

Her mother exclaims when she spots Maka moving and she grabs her hand, speaking rapidly, but all she hears is a hazy rush of words that meld together.

So quietly that she hardly notices, the fog sweeps her away again.

When she wakes again, she’s lying in a bed and everything is simultaneously more clear and unreal. A machine beeps rhythmically beside Maka, quickening slightly as she shakes off the film of sleep hanging over her eyes. Her mouth tastes like cotton balls and as she starts to call for water, memories pour over her like an avalanche.

The machine’s beeps turn into a swift chirping. Maka feebly tries to take off the mask off her face but another pair of hands still hers.

Her mother’s face swims into view. “You’re awake.” Her eyes are lined with red and her hair, always neat and in place, sticks up at odd angles. “The doctors said the sedative should have worn off over an hour ago.”

Maka’s tongue is heavy and her words come out slow and thick. “Where’s Papa?”

She stiffens before answering. “He’s at home.” Her lips purse briefly as she settles back in the chair next to the bed. “Dealing with the damage.”

“Oh.” Guilt runs white-hot under her skin. Maka plays with the tail of her hospital bracelet before asking, “Is it a lot?”

“Just the basement and everything in it.” Her mother shifts in her seat, folding her arms. “The firefighters couldn’t save anything.”

The I.V. in her hand pinches as she clenches her hands. “I’m sor-”

“Do you know what happened?”

Maka lifts her head back up. “Yes, I remember.”

“No.” The word bursts from her mother like thunder and carries the weight of a slap across the face.

Taking a deep breath, she says more calmly, “No, I asked you if you _know_ what happened.”

“I-” Her mother closes her eyes and rubs the side of her temples, propping her elbow on the arm of her chair.

“You were talking in your sleep.”

She doesn’t need to ask what Maka was talking about. How Maka feels now is worse than how she did in the basement. Her voice grows small. “I’m sorry.”

Her mother’s eyes open and her expression softens. She reaches out, patting her hand. “There’s nothing you need to apologize for. That basement was only full of broken things.”

Maka nods, mustering a small smile. Somehow, her words makes the guilt only needle more painfully at her.

With another pat to her hand, her mother pulls away and leans back into the chair.

Maka mirrors her, sinking back into her pillows. Yawning, she pretends to fall asleep again but secretly she watches her mother through lidded eyes.

Her mother stays in her chair, gazing absently at nothing. There are so many more lines in her mother’s face than there are in her father’s. As the minutes tick by, her expression doesn’t change but something in her face drops, revealing an exhaustion that runs down much farther than skin-deep.

She’s the one who did this, a thorny voice informs Maka. She’s made her mother this tired, much more than the years of fighting with her father have made her and only in a matter of weeks.

When her father enters the hospital room, her mother doesn’t draw the mask back up. They don’t speak to each other but the silence in the air says more than enough; Maka longs to speak, do something that will pull them together rather than push them apart, but something stops her from moving until the doctor enters the room and by then the moment has passed and her mother is the same as before.

Maka keeps her eyes trained on the ground as the nurse wheels her out of the hospital and to her car after she is pronounced out of danger by the doctor. The united facade her parents put up disappears the moment they begin driving. Internally, Maka berates herself for not speaking up the entire way home, but it’s only half-hearted.

She didn’t want to know how her mother would have looked at her.

**\---**

The sun is slipping beneath the horizon by the time they get home. Maka’s lungs ache when she moves and she coughs intermittently but the doctor had cleared of any danger from the smoke she inhaled.

Neither of her parents exchange more than a few words to each other as they help Maka to her room. She expects to see the ghosts waiting by her bed when her father opens her bedroom door but the room is empty. Panic roils in her stomach but it’s common for the ghosts to move into the closet when her parents are in her room, which Mrs. Horschenblott called basic etiquette.

Maka doesn’t know why but the thought makes her want to laugh and cry at the same time. Her parents give her strange looks when a small giggle escapes from her but the strained air between them pushes them out of the room once she’s settled in her bed.

As soon as their footsteps fade out of earshot, Maka springs from her bed and pads over to her closet, whispering, “How many times have I to-”

The closet is empty.

For a moment, Maka stares blankly into the closet and then stubbornness mixed with denial sets in. She pushes her way to the closet’s back, shoving away hangers and old toys. “Where are you?”

She exits the closet with a frown and goes back to her bed, dropping to her knees, looking underneath it and finding nothing.

“If this is because I turned around, I’ve learned my lesson.” Her voice crawls up in pitch as Maka circles the room, flinging back her curtains-it’s easier to be angry than to admit fear. “This isn’t funny anymore, come out!”

She waits.

Beneath her feet, the violent muted rumbling of her parents’ fighting thuds in her chest like a second heartbeat.

Maka continues to wait.

Truth crystallizes her heart into glass; realization quietly shatters it.

Her ghosts have never kept her waiting before.

It’s not the room that’s empty: it’s her.

Somewhere inside of Maka, a hole bigger than her body splits open. She stays frozen for a moment and after another beat, she starts to move.

The dying rays of the sun casts her shadow in a red glow as Maka gathers up her journals, piling them on her bed. Retrieving a box from her closet, she neatly places the journals in the box. Then she scours her room for everything that she’s done with her ghosts: a friendship bracelet she made with Eliza and Mrs. Horschenblott, the travel brochures she collected for Ernest, the Librarian’s catalog of library books she’d promised to borrow for her and the notebook tallying her Monopoly wins between April’s and Henry’s. She lays them all in the box with care and fits the lid on the box gently when she’s done.

It’s not hard to slip out of the house-her parents’ yelling buffers the creak of the stairs and the groan of the front door as Maka squeezes through and onto the porch. She cradles the box against her chest as she walks unsteadily down the driveway, still lethargic from the sedative the doctor gave her.

She pauses when she reaches the end of the driveway. Breathing in deeply, Maka hugs the box close to her.

Then she plunges the box into the open trashcan next to her, burying it amongst the dead leaves and branches until it’s out of view.

She twists around and marches back to the house, and although her hands are shaking and she has to scrub at her eyes with her sleeve, she does not turn back.

With every step, she forces a stitch through the hole in her body and pulls it closed.

When she re-enters the house, the shouting hasn’t ceased.

She will never talk to another ghost again.


	3. Psithurism

###  Psithurism

**Noun; the rustling whispers of the trees in a windy day, or the melodic swooshes from the leaves on the ground.**

**\---**

**Four years later-Halloween**

**\---**

Maka’s room is shrouded with the gauzy darkness of predawn when she wakes up, air still thick with the dreams of a mostly sleeping world.

She stretches until she feels her back crack and then Maka rolls on her side, rubbing at her eyes. The world has a strange underwater quality to it; it sounds dull and muffled on one side while sharp and staccato on the other. It takes another moment of adjusting to being awake for Maka to notice one of her earplugs has fallen out.

Her eyes widen and she scrambles for her phone, breathing out a sigh of relief as she sees 5:32 a.m. shining across the screen. The screams of the replay in the attic always stop sometime around at 4 a.m.

Dropping back on the bed, she holds her phone high above her face and stares at the tiny  _ October 31 _ sitting above the time. Dormant memories flicker into life as she moves her thumb to blot out the date, as if she could erase the day entirely. Tugging out the other earplug, she tosses it along with her phone onto her nightstand and ignores the painful twinge in her chest.

Covering her eyes with her arm, Maka shuts them tight, but her mind is wide awake and precariously brittle underneath the weight of today. She grits her teeth, closes her eyes and twists her thoughts towards simpler, less painful things.

A steady wind rattles through the trees outside of her window, creating a hollow, melodic timbre that almost sounds like a lullaby. She follows it along in her mind as she waits for her alarm to go off, and although Maka doesn’t fall back asleep, she relaxes enough to let go of the iron grip she has on her mind.

The light from the rising sun has just begun chasing off the lingering darkness in her room when Maka hears them. It’s almost indiscernible at first, only a whisper of noise that clashes with the wind’s song, but it rises slowly until it becomes so loud and clear there is no mistaking what lies beneath the wind.

Voices.

Maka sits up straight in her bed.

Not just voices. Her lost ghosts.

She’s on her feet and at the window before logic can catch up with her, flinging up the glass. A cold rush of wind slaps Maka’s face with stinging fingers but she pays attention to none of it, listening hard as she looks out into the dissipating gloom of the forest surrounding her house.

The gentle shushing of the wind fills her ears.

There is nothing else.

For a moment, Maka doesn’t move. The hole in her chest aches and strains against its stitches as she watches her breaths come out in puffs and get stolen away by the wind. Building walls does not come naturally to Maka-she was born hardwired to feel deeply and openly. Locking things away like memories and emotion is like sealing an inferno in a box, one that has a way of breaking free and ripping through her mind at the slightest disturbance.

Her fingertips brush against the window sill and Maka comes back to life with a start. She tugs the window back down and twists around, gritting her teeth. She also had been born with a soul made of flame, not paper, and she would burn herself out into ashes before she lets herself burn in the past.

Maka veers out into the hallway, ignores the greeting from her father and heads into the bathroom to get ready for school.

When she returns, her alarm is going off, sunlight has poured itself into every corner of the room and the wind has died down to a whisper. Toweling her hair dry, she shuts off her alarm and begins rummaging through her drawers for an outfit. In the light, it is easy to ball up the memory of what happened and discard it in one of the less-visited places of her mind.

She’s looking for a scarf her mother made her as the smell of bacon from the kitchen reaches her bedroom. Maka’s stomach growls with a insistent grumble but she ignores it, unable to find the scarf although she’s sure she laid it out on her desk last night.

“Maka,” Spirit calls from downstairs. “Breakfast’s ready!”

She gives a short “Coming” in reply, scanning the room again and giving her dressers one more look before she spies the scarf peeking out from underneath her bed. Quickly, Maka snatches it up and hurries out of the room, giving the mystery of how the scarf ended up beneath her bed only a passing thought before letting it go.

Her father is sitting at the table when Maka enters the kitchen, rustling his newspaper as he sips from the ‘#1 Dad’ coffee mug she gave to him back in second grade. “Morning,” Spirit says brightly. His police badge gleams in the light as he sets down the paper and gestures to the place next to him. “I already set your plate.”

“Thanks.” Maka sits down, placing her scarf next to her. She opens her mouth to speak but thinks better of it and takes a drink of her orange juice instead.

After a pause, Spirit asks, “Did you sleep well? I thought I heard noise coming from your room earlier.”

“Yeah, I-” She picks up her fork and fiddles with her pancakes. “I just had a nightmare.”

“Nothing too terrible?”

Maka shrugs. “I’ve forgotten most of it.”

Spirit forces a smile. “That’s good.”

They eat the rest of the meal in relative silence and although it chafes uncomfortably, it’s not the kind of silence that sits between the two like a field of broken glass.

Maka picks up their plates to wash when she’s done while Spirit gathers his things.

“I’ll probably be coming home late tonight,” he says as he adds his mug to the sink. “All of the vandals come out on Halloween.”

She snorts. The town of Orcus Hollow is hardly big enough to be a speck on the regional map, its jail acting more like a motel for homeless transients than an actual jail. “Watch out for the ninety year old ladies,” she answers, picking up the cup. “They’re the worst.”

“I’ll be sure to do that.” Spirit chuckles as he gives her a one-armed hug. “See you later.”

Maka neither returns nor recoils from his hug; she stops washing dishes when she hears the front door creak closed. She studies the mug in her hands-it still sports a visible crack from when she threw it away the day her mother moved out. She’d found the mug glued together and back in its place in the cupboard the next morning. Spirit never mentioned the incident nor seemed to hold it against her, and while it hadn’t kept Maka from spending the entirety of middle school and the better part of freshman year taking her anger out on Spirit, shame and guilt shadowed every insult she’d hurled at him.

Her fingers graze lightly over the crack. Nowadays, awkward is the best description of their relationship. Anger was simultaneously an addicting and exhausting thing to hold onto, perpetually burning out and reigniting itself until she was more ash than flame. She’d best vented the accompanying feeling of being swallowed whole by throwing herself in fights with bullies twice her size, sometimes backed up by Black Star but usually by herself. And while it had earned Maka quite a following by both the social outcasts and cool kids alike, the principal wasn’t as amused and paid her father a visit after a particularly explosive fistfight towards the end of freshman year resulted in a sprained wrist on her end, and a broken nose and dislocated shoulder on her opponent’s part.

She’d waited in her room while the two talked downstairs and steeled her expression when she heard Spirit coming up the stairs, resisting the urge to hide the splint bound to her wrist as he entered the room.

The characteristic lightheartedness had disappeared from Spirit’s face and he hadn’t spoken right away. Instead he had crossed the room and perched himself on the edge of her bed, meeting her gaze in silence before finally speaking.

“Before you throw a punch, think about why you’re doing it and whether you’re proud of it,” was all he said. “And if you’re still set on it, make sure you’re wearing these.” He’d placed a pair of fighting gloves on the bed and left before Maka could answer.

It hadn’t been one of her healing point but something had shifted loose inside of Maka and allowed her to look at her father with something other than disgust. They have yet to speak about the important things, and there are still invisible wounds just below the surface that burn if she examines herself too closely but the feeling of slowly being consumed has disappeared at least.

Maka resumes washing the dishes; glancing at the oven clock when she’s nearly done, she swears under her breath. Setting the last plate onto the drying rack with a clatter, she rushes to find her shoes. She slings her backpack across her back as she shoves her feet into her boots and doubles back into the kitchen, grabbing the scarf off the table. At the front door, she pauses in front of the mirror next to the door to wrap the scarf around her neck.

As she adjusts her scarf and hair, Maka’s eyes move from her reflection mirror to the picture next to the mirror. 

Her fingers still. Normally, she never lets herself linger on the family photo for too long but the weight of today breaks Maka’s self-control and, almost of its own accord, her hand lifts and hovers just above the photograph. It’s an odd family picture to display, considering they’re all sopping wet-they’d gone out to the park for a picnic and it started raining in the middle of it, but her parents had laughed at the rain rather than quarrel over who failed to check the weather and they’d enjoyed the rest of their picnic in peace.

The glass is cool as she traces the outline of her mother’s face, arms wrapped around Maka while Spirit hugs them both close. And although Maka had been shivering and soaked, she can’t remember a time that she felt warmer.

There hadn’t been many happy moments after that. 

Her hand drops; she steps back and in one quiet breath, she gathers up her sorrow in her lungs and expels it in a small sigh.

Even if she were to wake up tomorrow with her powers gone, there are ghosts she’ll never escape.

She steps out of the house, pulling the door shut. The light of the day is harsh and sharp, and Maka blinks rapidly against the stinging sensation in her eyes. As she begins the trek down the driveway, she wipes at her face and does not look back towards the house once.

**\---**

“...are you in?”

“Hmm?” Maka looks up from where she has slowly been picking away at the crust of her sandwich to find both Black Star and Tsubaki staring at her curiously. “Sorry, I wasn’t listening.”

“What’s with you today? You’re more out of it than when I got my wisdom teeth out.” Black Star raps the table with his knuckles impatiently and continues without waiting for an answer. “House jumping, are you in or not?”

“House jumping,” Maka repeats without comprehending.

Across from her, Tsubaki speaks up. “Basically, the student council representative from each year forms a team that goes into old Orcus Hollow at sundown and collects a team flag from each standing house,” she explains, sweeping back her jet hair behind her shoulders in one fluid movement. “The houses are rigged with traps beforehand and some of the seniors keep track of the number of flags each team collects.”

Maka raises an eyebrow. “Traps?”

“Nothing too horrific.” Tsubaki shrugs. “Just your normal run-of-the-mill Halloween jumpscares.”

Maka holds back a bitter laugh. She can only imagine how her sanity will fare with those jumpscares, along with whatever waits unseen in those houses.

“They’re finally letting the freshmen in on the competition this year, which is why we haven’t heard of it till now,” Black Star interrupts. “Harvar and Ox are organizing the sophomore team.” He puffs his chest out. “Seniors or juniors always win but the sophomores are going to win this year because they’ll have me.”

Instead of giving an answer to his question from earlier, Maka glances at Tsubaki. “And you’re doing this too?”

“I’m not a fan of breaking and entering,” Tsubaki says. “So I’ll be keeping count with some of the other seniors.” She gives Black Star a significant look. “And keeping you from demolishing the houses.”

Black Star rolls his eyes. “Are you ever going to stop reminding me of last year?”

“You desecrated that Chuck E. Cheese,” Tsubaki answers delicately.

“I paid it off in community service.” Black Star moves his gaze to Maka. “So you’re doing it?”

“Nope.” Maka stops picking at her sandwich, wraps it up again and puts it in her backpack. “Not that interested in adding vandal to my list of misdeeds.”

“Oh, look who is being a goody-two shoes now,” he mocks. The electric blue of his newly dyed hair doesn’t quite mask the lingering pink roots. “You weren’t that concerned when you were splitting open Greg Riley’s nose.”

“I only break the rules for the right reasons.”

“And glory isn’t one of them?”

She ignores him.

Black Star’s tone turns cutting. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of ghosts.”

Maka’s hand clenches before she can stop herself but her voice is cool and uninterested as she replies, “Of course not, I don’t believe in them. I just don’t want to get into trouble.”

Anyone else would have missed her hesitation, but no one has ears like Black Star. “Like hell you don’t,” he exclaims, pointing a jeering finger at her. “I remember that time you asked if we believed in ghosts in grade school, you could barely get the words out of your mouth.”

Something invisible and sharp tightens in her chest. Since she woke up, there has been a heaviness in the pit of Maka’s stomach that makes everything feel very wrong and jabs at her like an itch she can’t reach.

She resists the urge to grab his finger and twist it till he says uncle, and instead resorts to her fallback response whenever Black Star annoys her. “Shut up.”

“See? You can’t even deny it.”

Her hands clench. “Shut  _ up.” _

The grin that springs to Black Star’s face does not quell the temptation to punch him. “What happened that made you  _ so  _ afraid?”

“I’m not afraid!”

Her words are much harsher and angrier than she meant for them to come out, and Maka feels her face redden.

Black Star remains oblivious. “Prove it then,” he challenges.

Tsubaki breaks in then, a quiet but firm edge to her voice. “If Maka doesn’t want to want to go, then she doesn’t have to.” There is no need to look at her to tell that she has noticed Maka’s reaction.

“Fine,” Black Star grumbles, giving in gracelessly but easily to her reprimand. “Be the party pooper.”

The bell for class rings and Maka rises to her feet. “See you later.”

She leaves without saying anything else. She knows Tsubaki won’t press and Black Star will have moved on by tomorrow, but there are too many memories that have lodged loose from where she’s buried them that are jangling around like knives in her head for Maka to be around anyone.

_ In for five, out for four, _ she tells herself as she walks to class. There is an odd lightness uncoiling in her mind that douses the world with a surreal quality. Her hands furl and unfurl.  _ In five, out four, in five, out four _ .

By the time she reaches the classroom, her breathing has returned to normal and the memories have settled back in their proper places. With another deep breath, Maka rolls back her shoulders and enters the room.

**\---**

Towards the end of last period, the wind that began in the early morning returns with a vengeance, violently howling outside of the school. From Maka’s seat by the window, she watches with her chin propped on her hand as greying clouds on the horizon edge closer.

She’s wondering whether she’ll be able to reach home before the storm reaches Orcus Hollow when a whisper of a familiar-sounding voice catches her ear.

She looks up, tuning back into the class. At the front of the room, her teacher drones from behind his computer as a handful of students dutifully take notes while the rest of the class sits with vacant and disengaged faces, but no one is looking at her like they want her attention.

Frowning, she focuses back on her own notes and picks up her pencil, starting to write again.

Their teacher gives up on lecturing during the last five minutes before the bell rings. Maka snaps her notebook shut and packs away her things as the room begins to buzz with the swell of animated voices and chairs scraping against the floor.

_ “Maka.” _

Her name sounds right next to her ear, soft and clear.

She jumps, twisting around. “What?”

Hiro, the boy who sits in the desk next to her, looks from his conversation to Maka. “You all right?”

“You called my name, didn’t you?” Her eyebrows pinch together. “I heard someone call my name.”

“Not me.” He shakes his head. “And I don’t think anyone else did, either.”

“Oh, I-thanks.” She turns back to her backpack and Hiro resumes his conversation with his friends. Maka stares at her notebooks, hands wrapped tightly around her backpack straps. There is no doubt she knows the voice but at the same time, she can’t put a face to it.

The bell rings then. Maka is still deep in thought as she leaves the classroom for the bus. She gives up as she takes her seat and still can’t identify the voice, shrugging it off as how daydreams can bleed into reality.

As the bus makes its stops, the number of students aboard slowly dwindles until Maka is the only one left. She gets to her feet when she spies the beginning of the forest surrounding the town, tugging on her scarf tighter.

She makes her way to the front  when it creaks to a stop, thanking the driver as she steps off into the blustery afternoon. The wind immediately knots itself in Maka’s pigtails and makes her eyes water uncontrollably as she sets a path for home, trudging through the foliage to the faintly marked trail weaving into the forest.

The bright chatter of the wildlife greets Maka as she enters the forest. Originally, Orcus Hollow used to lie much farther south, but encroaching boglands and a fire that had ravaged the town in the forties forced the townspeople to re-establish themselves elsewhere. Maka’s house stands between the edge of the new town, past the cemetery, which had been the one of the few things of old Orcus Hollow to survive, and the beginning of the former town. When she was a kid, the bus would come for her and the rest of the children that lived on the outskirts. but they had all moved closer to Orcus Hollow throughout the years-now it was just her, Spirit, and a few elderly people stubbornly clinging to their houses.

Now, the bus stops just outside of Orcus Hollow-about a mile up the road lies the cemetery and Maka’s house is another mile past it. The charred remains of the original Orcus Hollow follow shortly after that, but an early run-in with a stray ghost who died in the fire had killed any curiosity Maka might have had in visiting the burned down town.

Distantly, thunder rumbles overhead and, with a soft sigh, rain begins to fall from the sky in a steady drizzle. In the time it takes for Maka fumble through her backpack for her umbrella, her clothes become soaked enough to cling to her like a second skin.

Involuntary shivers wrack Maka’s body as she grits her teeth and resumes walking. In freshman year, Tsubaki used to give her a ride home, but Maka hated feeling beholden or having to pass through the cemetery everyday. However, with Tsubaki entering senior year and college application season, it hadn’t been hard for Maka to convince her that she could handle the two mile trek.

She mildly regrets it now, as well as her decision to cut through the forest rather than follow the road, which would be a far easier walk. But using the road means enduring the cemetery and any ghost miserable enough to stay in a cemetery is ten times worse than anything Maka could encounter in the forest.

Maka pulls her scarf free as she continues on the muddy path, too wet to be useful anymore. An odd feeling envelopes her the longer she walks through the forest, a prickly uneasiness that whispers in her ear that she’s being watched. It overlaps with the heaviness that has been plaguing her all day, twisting her stomach into knots and stretching her nerves paper-thin.

She realizes part of what makes her so uneasy a few minutes later-save the quiet pattering of rain on the ground, the cheerful song of the forest has been replaced by a leaden silence that presses ominously on her ears. Tamping down on her fear, Maka swallows hard and quickens her pace.

Sudden rustling sends Maka’s heart into overdrive and she only spies a blurred shadow out of the corner of her eye before something solid and small crashes into her legs. She lets out something between a shriek and a yelp, nearly tripping over herself as she pedals backwards.

The shadow plants itself in front of Maka and lets out a soft cry.

Maka’s breath catches in her throat and she freezes, focusing on the shivering mound of purple fur and twitching ears sitting in front of her. She recognizes the cat as the one she sees around her house occasionally; she steps closer and crouches down to get a better look at the cat, propping her umbrella between her neck and shoulder to reach a hand out. “Hey there. You hurt?”

Golden eyes blink up mournfully at her before the cat launches itself forward, grabbing the scarf in Maka’s other hand with its mouth and ripping it away.

The surprise nearly tips her backwards. Maka springs to her feet, catching sight of the cat’s tail as it disappears into the brush. “Hey!”

She drops her umbrella and races after the cat without thinking, staggering through the thick undergrowth. Maka has few things left from her mother, and none she is willing to lose. “Give that back!”

A frustrated grunt escapes from her lips as Maka chases the cat. It’s hard to run, keep the cat in view, and watch where she’s going at the same time, but the cat seems to slow down when she falls behind and even looks back once or twice, as if it’s playing a game with her.

Rain runs down her back in rivulets and drenches her to the bone, while mud smears across her shoes and ankles with her every step, but Maka refuses to slow her pace. She intakes sharply when the cat suddenly bursts into a sprint, curving sharply to the left. 

Her attempt to veer left as quickly as the cat catches Maka’s foot on an exposed tree root and sends her sprawling with a cry, nearly colliding into a tree. By the time she’s righted herself, the cat is gone.

However, Maka is undeterred and continues forward stubbornly. Her persistence is rewarded when she comes across a clearing and spies the scarf strewn across the ground, cat nowhere to be seen.

She skids as she sprints across the clearing and picks up the scarf, examining it for any major rips and tears and breathing out a sigh of relief when she finds none. Getting to her feet, her stomach twists as her adrenaline rush bleeds away and she realizes exactly how far she has strayed from the trail.

Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, Maka weighs her options. She’s explored enough of the forest to know that the cat has led her closer to the road but at the same time, she has no idea if she’s walked far enough to be past the cemetery.

Rain continues to pour from the sky as she contemplates for another beat and then Maka spins on her heel and heads back towards the forest trail. As she picks her way through the overgrown brush, her feelings of unease return and she remembers exactly how she felt before the cat made its appearance. Maka runs her teeth across her bottom lip nervously, giving her surroundings a thorough inspection. She’d been too focused on getting her scarf back to realize that not a single animal had made a noise or even stirred in her presence, but it’s definitely clear now.

Shaking her head vigorously, Maka chases away the thoughts fear murmurs in her ear and continues to hurry forward. The rain seems to lessen slightly as she walks and she gives occasional glances up to the sky, hoping to see blue peeking out against the grey.

_ “Maka.” _

She rocks back on her heels.

_ “Maka.” _

Horror bites through her skin and bores its way into her bones-the voice is high and small, like a child’s.

_ “Maka.” _

But so much colder.

_ Run,  _ her mind whispers.  _ Hide. _

The voice echoes through the trees and loops around her like a snake coils around its prey.

_ “I see…. _

_   I see.... _

_     I see….” _

Above Maka, the wind from the storm rages but everything around her goes deathly still.

Within her head, the demon croons,  _ “I see you.” _

Terror snaps the hold over Maka and she pitches forward in a dead sprint.

The full force of the storm crashes down as she runs but it is nothing to the laughter reverberating in Maka’s head. Fear burns in her lungs as she pushes herself to run faster even though the rain pelting down blinds her to everything but what’s right in front of her. She swerves out of the way of trees blocking her path and ducks underneath low-lying branches at the last moment.  _ Keep running. _

She bites back a sob.

_ Don’t look back. _

A cry rips from her throat as she trips headlong over a fallen branch and smacks face first into a tree. Maka scrambles to her feet, ears ringing and vision spinning. Blood, sticky and warm, trickles from the side of her head as she staggers back into a run.

_ Don’t think, keep running _ , she chants in her head, stumbling with every step.  _ Don’t look back. _

She’s too focused on keeping her balance to realize she’s out of the forest and on the road until her feet are no longer sinking into mud but hitting hard asphalt.

Maka’s legs quake as she stares at the open sky, sucking in shallow breaths. She’s come out at the bend just before her house and the rain is nothing but a gentle drizzle now, the wind a soft whisper on her skin. She wobbles on her feet and wonders if the storm in the forest was real or if this lull is of the demon’s accord.

She looks from the woods to the empty road. But there are no foreign shadows in her mind, the air is full of sound not silence and the world around her is firm and solid, no voice picking at her mind, no darkness pulling at her vision.

The rest of her body begins to shake as Maka begins to laugh in relief, reveling in the feeling of reality washing over her.  Behind her, the wind whistles soothingly through the trees, sunlight illuminating the world in a hazy glow as the clouds start to recede.

She doesn’t notice the truck.


	4. Enantiodromia

###  Enantiodromia

\---

**Noun; The conversion of something into its opposite.**

\---

The strings drop suddenly and he has to breathe on his own again.

He crumples onto the floor with a thud and it’s only by instinct that he throws his hands out and avoids faceplanting into the ground. Pain is a foreign and perplexing feeling-he’s fascinated by the way the ache in his knees and palms arcs upward like tiny bolts of lightning. The rapid rise and fall of his chest tugs his attention elsewhere - air tastes heavy and unnatural on his tongue and although he tries to rise repeatedly, his legs refuse to budge, so he stills and focuses inwardly.

Thinking is an overwhelming process-it’s as if a flood of questions brimming at the edge of his mind had been waiting for his eyes to snap open so they can pour themselves into his head all at once. Instead of sifting through any of them, he concentrates on his surroundings. Finely woven silk strands whisper against his fingers as he runs his hands over the floor. Meanwhile, light streams in from above him, below him and every way he twists his head.

Lifting his eyes, he finds that he isn’t on the ground, like he’d thought, but in some strange cocoon of silk. He glances upwards to the thick ropes hanging from the top. Were those the strings that held him together? Who had created the cocoon in the first place?

His head begins to hurt the more he contemplates so he moves onto the next question that pops into his mind.

Had he existed before this?

Another interesting question that jams needles into his brain. He moves on.

Who is he?

This is a question that bears promise and he searches for a name, a face, a memory, anything to grasp and ground himself, but there is an unbearable  _ empty _ lightness in his mind that even the flood of questions cannot mask.

The throbbing pain in his temples intensifies and splinters his head like cracked glass. He tries to recoil from himself, flee back to the strings, but he is a soul stuck in a body again and whereas it had costed nothing to cease, it takes everything to be. The burden of being, he thinks dimly as he presses his palms to the sides of his head, is too much to handle. Too much noise, too much light, too much-

A piercing shriek sounds short and sharp in his ears as something careens into the cocoon. He’s too surprised to do anything other than gasp as the cocoon rips open and he tumbles out onto the ground in mess of silk and tangled limbs.

The world above him spins in a blurred mess. Wheezing, he stares upwards blankly, gulping down air. He chooses to let out a groan just as several other  _ things _ skitter past where he landed.

There’s a halt in the rhythmic patter against the ground and he feels a shadow fall over him as he rolls on his back and opens his eyes.

Four pairs of violently red eyes meet his as an ominous clicking fills the air. It’s not quite a spider but it’s close enough though much bigger. His eyes move to the plates of steel-like skin canvassing one half of the spider above him while the other half is a mangled mess of corded scars and rotting, exposed innards.

Then his gaze shifts to the pincers grazing the sides of his throat. Inky venom seeps from its pincers onto the ground in a hushed  _ dripdripdrip  _ as the spider studies him.

With a rapid click, it pulls away and lingers for only another moment before it and its partner take off after the other spiders.

Somehow, he staggers to his feet. His legs quake underneath him, his stomach churns, and every fiber in his body pulls him opposite of the direction the spiders went in but the scream of whoever crashed into his cocoon and ran off echoes and scratches against his eardrums. They’d been afraid and alone.

They don’t stand a chance against the spiders.

Neither does he, for that matter.

He follows.

\---

Maka has spent too much time among the dead to hope she’s still alive when she opens her eyes but she does anyways. An aching throb pulsing in her head makes it difficult to concentrate but she sees enough to tell she is no longer on the road to her house.  Her hand inches to her chest. 

The familiar beating of her heart is absent.

It’s what she expected, she tells herself as a useless breath hitches in her throat. Death is what happens. There was never a time when she was alive that she didn’t know it would happen to her. 

She squeezes her eyes tight. 

(It doesn’t erase reality.)

She drags her hands to her face and digs her nails into the soft skin beneath her eyes until the pain is only a numbing buzz.

(It doesn’t hide that the tears streaming down her face aren’t from the pain.)

She flattens her palm against her mouth, swallows the scream building in her throat and feels it burn in her chest.

(It doesn’t change the fact that she is utterly and completely alone.)

Maka opens her eyes.

“Alone,” she breathes out. She tries to remember the last thing she told her papa but their conversation dances out of her reach and fades away.

She rubs her face with a ruthless kind of anger. It doesn’t matter because he is nothing but a ghost now. Even if she screamed for the rest of eternity, he nor anyone else would hear her.

No one will ever come.

Maka curls inside of herself and strangles the broken sob on her lips. Her hands ball into tightly wound fists. Death will not break her-she repeats this to herself until her tears run dry and a cold calmness settles over her.

Shoving aside the fragility seeping in her bones, Maka pushes herself up into a sitting position and casts a look around. She’s not sure what she expected out of death but the soft grey-white haze that steeps the world in a gauzy blur doesn’t surprise her. The only thing she can make out are trees the color of ebony looming over her head-although there is no wind, the leaves sway back and forth and let loose a low, rasping noise that sounds like a death rattle.

Her hand sticks when she tries to move and she looks down to find herself sitting on thick strands of spider silk. Ropy threads of the white silk, viscous and elastic, cling to her palm as she rips her hand free. Maka’s gaze traces the strands to where they are anchored on the trunks of the trees surrounding her and then below her, where dozens of cocoon-like shapes hang from the strands.

She’s sitting on a giant web.

Licking her lips, Maka twists her head slowly and spies the mammoth opaque shadows lying like statues on the web. Even in the dark, she can see the bloody hourglass glinting from the middle of the spiders’ bellies.

Horror slides icy and razor-sharp into her stomach. Maka fights the urge to panic and stills her movements, pressing her hands together as she eyes the web. There’s a gap between the webbing about twenty feet away that’s large enough for her to drop through without jostling the web too much, but she has no idea whether there will be spiders waiting below.

Unwillingly, Maka’s gaze rests on the fangs of the nearest spider-her body would easily fit between its pincers. With a sharp intake, she grinds her teeth and forces the thought from her head.

It still takes several minutes for her to muster the courage to move. Maka lifts herself in increments, eyes darting around herself with every inch she rises. Her calves start to burn as she pushes herself into an awkward crouch and begins to work her feet from the web they’re enmeshed in. Fear beats in place of her heart the longer she tries to pull herself free with little luck - the smallest movement sends ripples through the web and her stomach plummeting.

Blooming panic makes her actions clumsy and impatient. Maka yanks her foot too hard and not only succeeds in wrenching herself free but stumbles backwards and nearly falls over, clamping down on the cry that springs to her lips. 

The web bounces up and down as Maka steadies herself. Dread congeals in her throat-there is nothing but the sound of her ragged breathing as she flicks her eyes from left to right for the sight of shifting shadows rising up. 

The spiders remain as motionless as headstones in a graveyard.

Maka counts to a hundred in her head before she exhales in relief. Breathing is unnecessary but it threads her fracturing composure together and she begins to carefully inch forward. The web continues to jiggle slightly from her near-fall and tiny steps towards the hole, bringing her pace to an agonizingly slow rhythm of stops and starts.

A few feet in, a low clicking noise sounds from behind. Maka pauses and the clicking stops. Cautiously, she looks over her shoulder but none of the spiders lie out of place. She takes a deep breath and resumes walking.

The clicking starts again.

This time Maka does not stop nor does she look behind herself. The taste in her mouth turns bitter; her pace quickens to the time of her breathing, which has transformed into a refrain of rapid and jagged gasps, and her knees quaver as the clicking is joined a soft hissing. The air comes alive with a cacophony of clicks and buzzing as the outlines of the waking spiders shift and roil angrily.

Terror snaps Maka’s self-control; she abandons any attempts to muffle her movements and bounds forward as the web trembles with the momentum of several spiders barreling towards her. A shriek falls from her lips as a spider lands forcefully in front of her and launches her into the air.

She has no time to do anything but feel the swoop of horror in the pit of her stomach before she’s crashing back into the web. The world spins and twists-Maka catches a glimpse of scarlet glowing eyes and bared pincers before she hears a tearing sound that halts the approaching spider.

There’s a moment of perplexed silence and then the web beneath Maka splits open and sends her tumbling to the ground; a yelp escapes from her as she slams into one of the cocoons connected to the web and slides off of it, smacking into the ground facefirst.

Blinding light erupts in Maka’s vision while pain envelopes her in a crushing embrace. She moans and gags on the crunch of dirt mixed with blood on her tongue; the taste clears her head enough to force herself up on her elbows and she cranes her head upward to see a steady river of spiders streaming from the broken part of the web.

Her knees scrape against the ground as she drags herself to her feet and lurches herself straight into a cocoon. Yanking her hands free, she kicks the cocoon away and hurdles forward into another cocoon. The clicking behind her turns furious-Maka swallows the whimper on her lips and shoves herself forward without looking back.

Panic deafens Maka to everything but the rapid ticking of her breath and the painful stretch of her muscles, cocoon silk grabbing and catching at her clothes as she fights her way through the maze of cocoons. She’s elbowing through the narrow space between two cocoons clumped together when something cold and steely grazes against the back of her neck; she twists to find a pair of fangs snapping violently inches from her face.

She screams and whirls around to run and is greeted by a second pair of pincers nosing towards her. Clamping a hand over her mouth, she drops to her knees, closes her eyes and stifles her breathing, as if that will save her.

Seconds draw out into moments and then minutes and Maka is still curled in a ball between the two cocoons, whole and breathing through clenched teeth. She opens her eyes first and when she doesn’t sense any fangs snapping over her head, she dares to lift her head.

Being wedged in the middle of two cocoons makes it hard to see much but through the tiny gap between them, Maka can see the legs of several spiders pacing back and forth in front of the cocoons. They move agitatedly around, but none of the spiders do anything to disturb the cocoons, and eventually they settle a short distance away from her.

Maka doesn’t question the miracle and relief briefly loosens the knot of dread in her chest before she realizes that her two options are to remain stuck here for eternity or to be immediately devoured upon stepping from the safety of the cocoons. She clenches her hands to stop the trembling of her fingers, but she cannot stop the thoughts ricocheting in her head.

_ What’s sown is always reaped.  _ Her mother’s favorite saying to hurl at Spirit during their fights rings in Maka’s ears and across her vision, the images of her ghosts and her parents hover and waver before disappearing like a mirage.

Maka’s forehead presses against the tops of her knees, nails digging into the muddy ground. She’d killed every single one of them or had driven them so far away they were as good as dead, whether she had meant to or not, and everything they had ever done for her is dust and ashes.

She pushes back the angry tears that well up in the corners of her eyes. She doesn’t deserve to shed them.

“Hey,” a voice whispers.

She inhales sharply and lifts her head, seeing nothing.

“Up here.”

She looks up and locks eyes with a boy a couple years older than her. He’s dressed strangely, brown hair slicked back and in a pinstriped suit that she’s only seen on rich people in black and white photographs. He holds out a hand from where he’s perched on the top of one of the cocoons.

She doesn’t take his hand but she rises. “Who are you?”

He considers the question for the moment, pulling back his hand. “I’m not sure,” he finally says. “Who are you?”

“Maka,” she replies and although the answer is true, it doesn’t feel quite right in the way he asked the question. She glances back toward the spiders-they don’t seem to be perturbed by his presence like they are with hers. “Why aren’t they trying to get you too?”

“I’m not sure of that either,” the boy replies but he frowns. His eyes go distant and pointed teeth gleam at her as he opens his mouth slowly. He re-focuses on Maka. “I think it’s because I was in one of those things.”

She looks to a cocoon; revulsion churns in her stomach. “You were in one of these?”

He nods. “For a long time, I think.” He doesn’t elaborate and his expression becomes veiled. “Here.”

Maka automatically reaches up to grab what he drops down. Her fingers sink into silk and she examines the hull of cocoon the boy tossed down. It’s nearly as long as her and half as wide. “What do I need this for?”

“The spiders won’t be able to track you with that masking your scent,” he replies. “Probably.”

“Probably,” she repeats, raising an eyebrow. “And how am I supposed to put this on?”

“Shove your head through it?” he suggests. He shrugs. “That’s all I got.”

She scoffs but begins to work open a hole large enough to force her head through, pausing every so often to check the spiders haven’t noticed her movements. For all of the softness of the silk, the hull is rigid and hangs on Maka like a stiff poncho once she manages to get it on.

Maka huffs, pulling stray strands of silk off of her face. “Okay, I’m ready.”

The boy extends his hand towards her again. His fingers are oddly warm for a dead person, Maka thinks as she tightens her grip on his hand before she realizes that she is just as dead as him. Her brows knit together and she concentrates on nothing but pulling herself up. It’s not easy to navigate clambering up the side of the cocoon, but the boy doesn’t loosen his hold, not even when she loses her footing halfway to the top.

Even after Maka hoists herself onto the top, he doesn’t let go until she’s holding onto the rope of web suspending the cocoon. Her hands wrap around the web and she doubles over, sucking in a breath. She raises her head to find the boy already looking at her; anything she had thought of saying suddenly vanishes. His eyes are a strange mix of brown and red, and although they are somehow more unsettling than his teeth, she can’t bring herself to look away.

They stare at each other in silence. The boy breaks first. “Fancy outfit you have there.”

Maka’s not sure if the giggle that bursts out of her mouth is because he’s genuinely funny or the situation is finally cracking her hold on sanity. “Thanks,” she answers, composing herself. “It’s the highest fashion for not getting eaten.”

“That doesn’t sound ideal at all,” he says. He glances upward. “Which is why we should get moving.”

Maka follows his gaze to the web. “You’re joking.”

“Not at all.”

“Then you’ve lost your mind.”

“Possibly,” the boy agrees. “But it is our best bet.”

She doesn’t give in. “And how is that?”

“We’ll get caught eventually if we go on the ground and we can’t stay here forever,” the boy answers. “So we hole up in one of those,” he says, pointing to the trees holding up the web. “If we can make it up without any of the spiders noticing, there’s no reason they should search for us there.”

It makes too much sense to Maka and she doesn’t like it. “Have you considered there’s probably spiders up there?”

“Yes.”

Her look sharpens into a glare when he doesn’t say anything else but finally she sighs. “All right.”

The boy interlocks his fingers together and offer his palms to Maka. “Want a boost?”

Maka allows herself to look down at the spiders once and then she places her foot on his hands. She lets out a grunt as she pulls herself higher onto the web rope and begins to climb. 

If she were alive, Maka’s hands would be sweaty and her heart would be hammering in her chest. Instead, she feels the hollow stillness in her chest and the web silk clings stubbornly to her fingers. She grits her teeth and keeps her eyes on the web above her as she moves at a crawl, the boy following when she’s high enough.

They’re three-quarters of the way up when Maka feels it. She pauses and looks down to the boy, who has fallen behind. “Do you feel that?”

“Wha-” The boy breaks off when the rope wobbles dangerously before sagging slightly. “Shit.”

Maka starts climbing again, moving at a faster pace. “Hurry.”

The gap in the web is barely big enough for Maka to fit in when she reaches the top. With every hard movement it takes for her to pull herself through, she winces, sure it’s the last straw that will snap the web rope. She stands and scans the web after she yanks her foot free before turning to reach through the gap for the boy. “Here.”

The rope trembles as he scrambles up and Maka sees the base of the rope pulling apart. She stretches her arm further. “Hurry up!”

The boy’s hand wraps around hers just as the rope gives way with a sharp snap. There is a muffled crash as the cocoon connected to the web drops to the ground. Maka gasps as she loses her balance against the sudden weight pulling her down and falls on her face, arm protesting painfully as she holds tight onto the boy. She grinds down on her teeth and pushes her free hand through the web to grab the boy’s other arm. “Don’t let go.”

He laughs once, fingers lacing around her forearm. “Isn’t that what I should be telling you?”

Maka lets out a groan in response, fighting to rise to her feet. The boy loosens his grip once he is close enough to grab hold of the web but Maka keeps a hand around his wrist as she helps him widen the gap.

He scrambles up onto the web on his elbows and rolls onto his back with a muted grunt. His eyes meet hers. “You think they noticed that?”

Maka rises on shaky legs and glances at the ground, where spiders are swarming the broken cocoon. Even from here, their enraged hissing grates against her ears. She turns back towards him. “No, definitely not.”

“Oh, good.” He stands as well and follows her as Maka makes for the nearest tree, falling into step with her. She wrenches off the cocoon husk and tosses it away when they reach the tree since it’s too heavy to climb a tree with and it’s already unraveling anyway.

The boy helps Maka up onto the tree branch wordlessly and she twists back to grab his hand. They move in silence, only speaking when they hear a noise from somewhere in the tree. In the absolute gloom of the ebony tree, Maka’s thoughts settle and sink and occasionally she glances back down and sees more and more spiders returning to the web. And although she cannot see the boy’s face in the dark, she knows he’s doing the same thing.

She stops when the branches are too far apart to get to easily and looks back to the boy. The leaves have begun to thin so his face is no longer completely in shadows. “Far enough?”

“With any luck.” He settles into the crook of the branch. “Though I’ve never had much, I think.”

Maka snorts and sits next to him. “Well, if you’re relying on mine, I have bad news for you.”

“Suppose it’s up to chance then.”

She hums in a way that neither agrees nor disagrees with him. Quiet drops between them and they watch the rest of spiders gather where the cocoon had been connected for a few minutes before Maka speaks. “You’re sacrificing yourself for a complete stranger, you know.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees his head turn to her. “Potentially.”

She chooses not to comment on their chances. “Still.”

“Would you have done the same thing?”

She looks at him fully now. The darkness doesn’t do anything to dim the glow of his eyes; he looks at her like he already knows the answer. Maka shrugs and doesn’t answer the question. “Anyways, we’re dead so it doesn’t really matter.”

Surprise raises his voice out of his quiet murmur. “Are we?”

“You didn’t know?”

“No.” He pauses. “Yes. But I think I forgot.”

“You forgot you died?” Maka frowns. “How long were you in that cocoon?”

“Long enough to forget almost everything, but-” He rakes a hand through his hair. “I don’t think I lived in a way that I’d know the difference.”

“Oh,” she says quietly. She reaches out until her fingertips are brushing against the top of his hand. “I’m sorry.”

He goes stiff at her touch but then he relaxes. “Thanks.” His shoulders lift in a half-shrug. “It is what it is.”

Maka opens her mouth to speak but her attention is caught by a sudden flurry of activity below. The spiders disperse from where they are huddled. Something green and familiar lies caught on the web and Maka’s hand flies to her neck. She springs to her feet. “Oh no.”

“What?” The boy gets to his feet. “What happened?”

“My scarf-” Maka continues to feel around her neck, like the scarf will magically re-appear. Her hand drops. “It fell off.” She swallows. “They found it.”

He doesn’t say anything but instead he goes still as they watch more and more of the spiders trace their path to the tree. “Well,” he says finally, “How do you feel about heights?”

She blinks. “They’re fine, I guess.”

“That’s good,” he says. “Because we’re going to jump.”

Maka stares at him for a moment before she realizes he’s not joking. “That’s a suicide mission.”

“Good thing we’re already dead, then.”

“The web isn’t going to hold us,” she says flatly. “We’re going to die again.”

“And we’ll get torn to pieces if we stay here.” He points to where the first spider has reached the tree. “Which do you prefer?”

“Neither.” She sighs to bury her fear but looking down makes her hesitate. Swallowing hard, she asks, “What if we get separated?”

He takes her hand and with his free hand, he plucks a piece of spider silk from her shoulder and winds it around their hands tightly, meshing between their fingers. “There,” he says. “Now we can’t get separated even if we wanted to.”

It draws a smile out of Maka, despite everything. “Okay,” she says, nodding. “Okay.”

The side of his body presses against Maka as the boy squeezes her hand. “I’m right here.”

They jump.

**\---**

There is a soft beeping in the darkness.

The sound tugs at Maka persistently and pulls her into half-consciousness. Nothing about her feels solid, her being is a nebulously tethered string of memories and thoughts that feels like could break apart at any moment.

A presence that is not Maka pulses in the darkness. It should be alarming but whoever is with her doesn’t inspire fear-their presence is a wild, chaotic and intense melody that calls to her being together and sings to her soul in a way she does not understand. She breathes out with a shudder that sends ripples through the darkness and the presence pauses their song; Maka frowns and reaches out.

It’s a mistake: just as quickly as they appeared, the person disappears. Maka’s protest sticks in her throat-she needs to know who the person is behind the song-and with a huge effort, she opens her eyes.

The bright white of ceiling tiles nearly blinds Maka. Beyond her, the beeping she heard takes on a mechanical tone and she hears the faint murmur of voices moving above her head. She rolls her tongue across her lips and un-sticks her throat, words croaking out of her mouth. “Where am I?

Someone gasps and, in the next moment, a hand grips hers tightly, “Maka!”

She turns her head to the voice, blinking groggily at the vague outline in front of her. Their face comes into focus in bits and pieces and even when she can see him clearly, it’s hard to believe it’s her father standing beside the bed.

Exhaustion paints purple shadows underneath Spirit’s eyes and there is a permanent furrow in his brow even as a smile breaks across his face. His hair sticks up in every direction and when he comes closer, she can see white flecks standing out from the overgrown stubble sweeping across his cheeks and chin.

Maka’s throat burns with a dull ache as she swallows. “Papa.”

“It’s okay, I’m right here,” he says gently.

She flinches; his words shake memories loose and they clatter around in her head like rocks. The boy’s face swims in her vision and her right hand, the one he had held, curls around air, palm tingling and oddly cold.

Spirit’s rapidfire words finally reaches her ears, interrupting her thoughts.

“-ver three days, the doctors were starting to get worried but I knew you’d pull through!” He pats the top of her hand, wide smile still in place that doesn’t mask the strain in his eyes. “You’re a fighter, after all.”

He frowns when Maka doesn’t answer. “Honey?”

“I-” Maka begins to speak and stops when she realizes she has nothing to say. Her gaze slides down to her bedsheets and she feels her throat close-she hadn’t thought she was going to see her father again.

“Don’t push yourself.” Spirit’s fingers brush over her knuckles and she looks up. The faint murmur of voices from a TV and the sound of a chair scraping across the floor fills the room as he rises. “I’m going to go for the doctor but I’ll be right back.”

He’s gone before Maka can say anything. She licks her lips and tries to organize the infinitely branching thoughts in her head into one stream of thought. There isn’t a part of her that doesn’t ache and when she breathes too deeply, a sharp stabbing pain needles at her side. Maka pulls her thoughts away from the pain and her eyes drift to look at her still-curled hand. She raises it to her face-the boy had seemed too real to be a dream, but if she’s alive, then he couldn’t be anything else.

Maka straightens her fingers slowly. She doesn’t remember much after they had jumped but what she does remember is that his hand had still been wrapped around hers before everything turned to black. Maka settles back into her pillows, something close to disappointment burning dully in her chest.

At least she can be grateful her dream wasn’t a complete nightmare, she thinks faintly as the fog from the anesthesia begins to claim her back to sleep. She yawns and closes her eyes, feeling her thoughts meandering into nothingness.

“Hey,” a voice whispers.

Maka’s eyes snap open. Her gaze darts around the room but she sees nothing. Next to the bed, her heart monitor chirps in faster beeps.

“Up here.”

Maka glances upward. Burgundy eyes stare back at her.

Faint rays of light from the window illuminate the blood on the boy’s dress shirt and turn him transparent as he looks down at Maka, upside down. “I remembered who I am.”


	5. Welter

###  Welter

\---

**Noun; a confused mass; a jumble; turmoil or confusion.**

\---

“It’s Soul,” he says awkwardly after a moment of silence.

Maka continues to stare blankly at him.

“Well, I’m not quite sure about that either,” he adds on in a rapid voice. “All I know is someone used to call me Soul.” His face blurs as he turns even more transparent.  “There is still a lot I don’t remem-”

“Stop.”

He pauses, rematerializing. “What?”

“What are you doing here?” Maka’s lips barely move as she sits up slowly, weariness bleeding away. She squeezes her eyes shut, rubs them vigorously and opens them to find him floating in front of her.

Closes and rubs her eyes again. Opens them. Still there.

“Are you okay?”

Soul drifts closer and Maka shrinks away. “I’m fine,” she snaps.

His eyebrows lift in confusion. “Why are you acting this way?”

She ignores his question. “How did you get here?”

“I-” He scratches his head. “We were holding hands and then we jumped and-” He frowns. “It goes black after that.”

“Oh,” is all Maka says. She was hoping he would have remembered more than her but she supposes it doesn’t matter. Gritting her teeth, she sits up and Soul jerks away. She rolls her eyes and raises her hand, waving it through his face. “Not like it makes a difference anyways.”

Soul freezes, eyes following Maka’s fingers as they passes through him back and forth. He’s quiet for a long moment after she pulls her hand away and doesn’t speak until he’s drifted down next to Maka’s bed. 

He gazes down at his hands, nearly erased by the light filtering through the window. There’s an odd snowy glint to the brown of his hair, like it’s been dusted in snow. “I really am dead,” he says quietly.

His pain is too similar for her to be harsh. She swallows. “Yes.”

His eyes move to her face. “And you’re alive.”

“Yes,” Maka says again.

Soul’s hand twitches, as if he’s going to reach out for hers.

Maka pretends not to see it. The familiar itch to be rid of a ghost’s presence starts to crawl up her back and she shoves her sympathy away. “There’s nothing I can do for you,” she says.

Soul looks up. His eyes are slightly widened, lost and confused. “I wasn’t going to ask you to do anything.”

They both start as a man in a white coat bustles in, Spirit on his heels. “I hear someone finally woke up. How’s our patient?”

Maka can’t keep herself from wincing as the doctor walks through Soul to stand by her bedside while Spirit goes to stand on her other side. The doctor takes out a penlight and clicks it on, flashing it from one of Maka’s eyes to the other. “Still in pain?”

She squints at the light, gaze briefly sliding to Soul. He’s taken up residence near the ceiling and his expression is unreadable. “No, not much.”

“Are you sure?” The doctor is examining her heart monitor now. “Your heart rate has been accelerated for some time now.”

“I’m fine.”

“I wouldn’t say a partially collapsed lung, three broken ribs and various areas of internal bleeding are fine,” the doctor says. “But you will recover in time.”

Maka glances up at Spirit, who has his fingers encircled around her wrist. “Almost fine.”

Her comment pulls a weak smile from her father and a chuckle from the doctor. “Good to see you have your sense of humor intact,” he says, looking over to Spirit. “The nurse will be in shortly for some tests and then we’ll go from there.”

Relief peels away some of the worry etched on Spirit’s face. “Thank you.”

The doctor nods, turning to go.

Maka leans forward. “Wait.”

“Yes?” The doctor glances back at her and Maka bites on her lip, weighing the question on her tongue.

“Did I-” She hesitates before plunging forward. “How close was I to dying?”

Spirit’s grip around her wrist tightens at her question but Maka refuses to take it back. The doctor doesn’t answer immediately and when he does, his answer is short and vague. “It came close.”

“How close?” Maka presses, keenly aware of the pair of eyes watching her from the ceiling. She looks at Spirit when she’s met with silence. “How close?”

“Your heart was stopped for almost five minutes,” the doctor says finally. “It was very close to being called.”

Maka doesn’t need to ask what ‘it’ was and she watches the doctor leave the room without saying another word. The beeping of the heart monitor is no longer enough evidence for her that she’s alive and she tucks her hand to her chest, feeling the soft thrumming underneath her fingertips. She sighs; her eyes droop involuntarily as the last of the adrenaline from earlier ebbs away but she forces them open and clears her throat, free hand clenching into a fist. Even buried underneath the bedsheets, it’s still far colder than her other hand.

Peeking up at Spirit, Maka summons the most sickly sweet voice she can muster. “Papa, could you do me a favor?”

Internally, she grimaces but Spirit’s expression softens even more and he strokes her forehead like he used to when she couldn’t fall asleep. “What is it, sweetie?”

“I-” Maka blinks rapidly at the sudden sting in her eyes. She sucks in a breath and tries again. “Could you go home and get me something to read?” she asks. “And maybe something to eat too?”

Spirit frowns, balking. “We’re not in the hospital in Orcus Hollow, Maka,” he says. “I’d have to drive for an hour to get home.”

There’s a small intake from the ceiling but Maka ignores it. “Please?” she persists. There’s no way she’ll be able to talk to Soul with Spirit hovering over her. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

It’s exactly the wrong thing to say-something drops in Spirit’s expression and his hold on Maka’s hand constricts almost painfully, like she might disappear at any moment. He shakes his head and gestures to the tiny TV mounted on the wall from across her bed. “Why don’t we watch something instead?”

“I don’t want to watch TV.” Maka tries to push the edge out of her voice. “I’m going to be bored out of my mind if the best thing I have to do is count the cracks in the floor tiles.”

“We can count them together,” Spirit offers.

Impatience breathes life into words Maka thought she had let go of and she pulls her arm out of his grasp. “Maybe if you had acted like this with Mama, she wouldn’t have left you.” Her voice is cold and even as she hates herself for saying the words, she feels the smallest bit of vicious joy in her chest at the shock on Spirit’s face. “I don’t think this makes up for it though.”

She almost hopes he’ll explode but instead Spirit deflates. “I realized that when you almost died four days ago,” he says quietly. “The only thing that I’m trying to do is be here for you.”

Shame and guilt burns in Maka’s throat. The hushed acceptance and dejection in his words is somehow worse than being yelled at and she stares down at her hands, unable to look at Spirit, much less answer him. She moves her gaze to the floor and watches Spirit shift from one foot to the other.

When he speaks, his voice has returned to normal. “Is there any book in particular that you want?”

Maka shakes her head.

“All right then,” he says, stepping away from the bed. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Okay,” she says, nodding to the bed sheets. 

She jumps slightly as Spirit presses a kiss to her forehead. He’s at the doorway and nearly out of the room when she speaks, lifting her head. “Thank you.”

She spoke too low, however, and the words don’t reach Spirit, who rounds the corner without pausing.

Anger and regret needle at Maka from the inside out. Her palms hum with the urge to vent her rage but she’s stuck in her bed so the only thing she can do is squeeze her hands together and hold her breath until the knot in her chest loosens. Exhaling slowly, she closes her eyes briefly before turning her attention to the boy on the ceiling. Soul’s eyes are already on Maka’s face; she would have snapped if he’d been looking at her with pity but the mixture of recognition and empathy in his expression silences her retort.

They stare at each other for another moment before he speaks. “You should have asked for a brush too.”

She blinks, eyebrows knitting together. “What?”

The corners of his mouth twitch upward. “I’m not sure if hair is meant to stand straight up but yours is doing a remarkable job of it.”

Maka’s hand flies to her head and she feels a thousand tiny knots graze against her palm. She scrunches her nose at the smirk growing on the ghost’s face as she tries to press her hair flat. “And you?” she challenges, dropping her hand and gesturing to his mess of ruffled hair. “I nearly died but what’s your excuse?”

Soul frowns. “What do you mean?”

She points to the glass of the window. “Take a look.”

Soul turns to the window. He doesn’t say anything but only drifts close to the glass, studying himself silently. “Well,” he says finally. “Being attacked by giant spiders tends to do that to your hair.”

He makes no comment on the blood staining his shirt and neither does Maka.

She forces a smile, fingers tapping against the bed railing as he turns back to her. “Listen,” she begins. “I appreciate what you did for me but you’re dead-”

“Thanks, I hadn’t realized it.”

She plows forward. “You have nothing to do here-”

“Not true.” He shakes his head. “I lived in Orcus Hollow.”

She goes cold. The rest of her speech dissipates into a strangled noise as Maka struggles for a long moment to find her voice. “Orcus Hollow,” she repeats at last. “You lived here.”

“Yes.” Soul is looking at her in mild concern. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Maka says. She jabs a finger at him. “How did you find me? How did you know I was also from Orcus Hollow?”

Soul’s eyes widen in surprise but he answers with the same bite. “I didn’t know anything when I went to help you. It was only a coincidence.”

“I don’t like coincidences,” Maka states flatly. Her hand grows even colder as she speaks as she finds Soul’s gaze and holds it. Pain twists deep inside of her when Maka sees his expression but she has learned the hard way that inherent trust only leads to heartbreak. “The best thing you can do is leave.”

Hurt flashes across Soul’s face. “What is your problem?”

“My problem is that I don’t like ghosts,” Maka snaps. She shoves her hand under her arm but it does nothing to drive away the cold. “And you’re here.”

Whatever openness remains in Soul’s expression disappears. “If you thought I was going to beg to stick around a spoiled brat, you were mistaken.”

She swells at the insult as he vanishes from sight. “Spoiled bra-”

Crushing pain radiates from Maka’s hand like liquid lightning, coiling into her chest. She can’t even scream, only feel as all-encompassing waves of agony wash over her entire body, spiking higher and higher.

As abruptly as it started, the pain evaporates. Maka gasps for breath and curls inside of herself. Next to her, Soul’s voice wheezes out, “What the hell?”

Pushing herself up, Maka rubs away the tears of pain that sprang to her eyes and looks to Soul, who has his hand cradled to his chest. “You felt that?”

He nods, expression stuck between shock and disbelief. “I don’t know how,” he says. “I don’t even have a body.”

Lifting her hand, Maka twists it back and forth, examining it. There isn’t even the slightest remnant of pain and the chill that envelopes the hand has mellowed. She raises her head and frowns, tracing everything that happened from the moment she and Soul met to now, and glances at her hand again. “Why did you return?”

An uncomfortable look crosses Soul’s face. “The further out I went, the worse the pain became,” he answers carefully. “So I came back.”

The pit of her stomach suddenly feels hollow. Maka bites her lip. “Does anything else feel strange about your hand?”

“I-” He hesitates. “It feels warm, somehow.”

It’s not the answer she expects but she shrugs away her confusion, leaning forward. “Let’s try it again.”

Soul looks at her in alarm. “What?”

“We have to be sure it’s not anything else,” Maka insists. “Come back the moment you feel something.” She pauses. “And maybe go in smaller increments this time.”

He sighs but without another argument, Soul disappears through the hospital window.

Nothing happens although that doesn’t keep a knot of anxiety from balling in Maka’s stomach. She strains to see out of the window from where she sits but she can see nothing with the sun’s glare.

As she is craning her head, a soft tingling starts humming in her palm.

“There it is.” Soul re-appears next to Maka, wiggling his fingers at her. “Why do the automobiles out there look strange?”

“You mean cars?” she says, momentarily distracted. “They’ve looked like that for a while now.”

“And everyone has one?” he asks wonderingly.

“For the most part, yes,” Maka answers. She steers the conversation back on-topic. “What did you feel out there?”

Soul looks at his hand. “It wasn’t pain,” he says. “It was more like a buzzing.”

“And it’s gone now?” she asks.

He nods. “You too?”

Maka chews on her lip before answering. “Yes.”

Whatever hope she may have had dissolves, and when she meets Soul’s gaze, she knows they’re both thinking the same thing.

He is the one to break the silence. “So what we do about-” He gestures to the space between them, “whatever this is?”

“I don’t know.” She grits her teeth. And here she had thought death was the worst thing that could happen to her. “But I’m not going to be chained to a dead person for the rest of my life.” 

He rolls his eyes. “Trust me, I’m about as excited as you are about this,” he says, kicking upward into the air to float on his back.

The urge to hurl her pillow at him is nearly irresistible. “You certainly don’t seem as bothered by it.”

Soul’s shoulders lift in a lazy shrug. “I’m just a dead person, remember?” He closes his eyes. “No one sees me.”

Maka’s pillow sails squarely through Soul’s chest. He opens one eye when the pillow lands on the floor with a soft thump. “Did you throw that at me?”

“It slipped.”

He closes his eye again. “Well, if that was your way of trying to get rid of me, I’m sorry to inform you I’m still here.”

His nonchalant indifference makes Maka bridle and, unbidden, the scrawl of her notes and theories that she kept in her journals flashes across her mind. “No, that wasn’t one of them,” she says sweetly. “But I have ideas.”

“As long as one of them works, that’s what counts.”

Maka smiles so widely that it’s more like she’s baring her teeth. She matches his tone. “My feelings exactly.”

Soul doesn’t answer and she huffs, silence falling between them. Her indignation doesn’t last long, however-exhaustion picks at Maka’s eyes and she doesn’t fight to keep herself from sinking back into her pillows. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Riveting news.”

She scowls and squints at him with one eye. “Are you really just going to float there while I sleep?”

“Is there anything else I can do?” Soul asks, righting himself. He fixes on his gaze on the pillow and it floats up from the ground.

The pillow drops back on the floor when he notices her expression. “Is that normal?”

“Not usually,” Maka says after a moment. Her wariness, which had dissolved some point in their conversation, returns in full force and she gives her head a shake. “But maybe you can haunt the people down the hall?” she suggests. “You’ll be free to do all the creepy stuff you want and they won’t know who to yell at.”

Soul’s expression snaps shut and he looks at Maka the same way he had before he left the first time. For some reason, it digs deep under her skin and she feels regret flare in her throat.

He speaks before she can say anything. “I’m dead, not creepy.” Soul rights himself and begins heading out of the room. “But you’re right, there are infinitely more interesting things I’d rather do than watching you drool while unconscious.”

As Soul disappears from the room, Maka feels her hand grow colder ever so slightly.

**\---**

She’s back on the web again. The sky swirls in a riotous clash of black and red and just beyond Maka’s vision is the angry hissing of the spiders swarming around her, clamoring for her blood.

Fear strangles her scream; Maka tries to leap to her feet but the tendrils of the web clings to her like glue and roots her in place. The more she struggles, the more the web tangles around her body until she can hardly move.

“No,” she gasps. “Someone.” Her voice comes out just above a whisper and she rolls her head to the side, blinking back hot tears. “Help me.”

But she is dead so no one hears her. The world is suddenly empty-the sounds of the spiders vanish into nothingness and she should be relieved but the silence that follows is worse. It’s cold and numbing as it gnaws into Maka’s mind, spreading through her body and latching onto her soul with ease. There is no mercy in the way it presses against her being and beats the loneliness that’s always existed in her bones against her heart.

And it is then that tears begin sliding down Maka’s face as she realizes the silence has never been something outside of her, it’s a part of her and it has pushed out everyone she’s ever cared about and left her trapped within herself to rot.

“Please,” she whispers. “I don’t want it to be like this anymore.”

“Maka!”

Maka’s eyes fly open to the soft darkness of the hospital room, heart crashing in her chest. She looks wildly around the room, taking in her father snoring in the chair next to her, before zeroing in on the translucent figure hovering over her.

Soul hovers a few feet above the bed, eyes wide. “What happened?”

She shakes her head to kick the lingering sounds of the dream out of her head but Soul misinterprets.

“You can’t pretend you’re fine.” He waggles his fingers at her. “My hand is on fire.”

Her fingertips feel wet as she rubs the sleep from her eyes and Maka can’t quite meet his gaze when she answers. “That sounds more like your problem than mine.”

Soul rolls his eyes but he doesn’t take the bait, waiting.

She is quiet for a long moment.

“Is this real?” she whispers. She pushes the heels of her palms to her eyes. “What if I’m really dead?”

There’s a beat of silence and then Soul speaks, voice much closer than before. “Look.”

Maka pulls away her hands to see Soul’s hand running back and forth through her face. His gaze meets hers. “See?” he says simply. “Still alive.”

The odd burgundy of Soul’s eyes is mesmerizing in the darkness. Without thinking, Maka reaches out for his hand; he pauses in his movements and together, they watch her hand overlap and linger in his.

A particularly noisy snore from Spirit makes the two jump and Soul jerks back to the spot he’d been previously. He studies the sleeping man. “Both of you sleep with the same expression. It’s weird.”

“And how do you know that?” she asks.

“I was here shortly before you woke up,” he answers. He gives her a look. “I have never heard someone snore so loudly. It’s enough to wake the dead.”

Something between a snort and a laugh escapes from her lips. Spirit stirs fitfully and Maka covers her mouth until she’s sure she can control herself.

“I do not snore,” she whispers, scowling at the grin on his face. “I don’t.”

Soul’s smile only grows wider. “You keep telling yourself that.”

She sniffs and levels a glare at him but the upward wobble of her lips betrays her. Maka speaks before she can convince herself otherwise. “Thank you.”

Soul’s eyebrows raise for a fraction of a second before he shrugs. “Like I said, my hand was on fire.”

“And now?”

“It’s fine,” he says, glancing down at it. “Yours?”

“It runs cold rather than warm but it’s all right.” She frowns, talking to more to herself than Soul. “I wonder why that is.”

He shrugs again. “I’ve got about as much of a clue as you do.”

Maka yawns, looking back up at Soul. “We’ll figure it out.”

They’re quiet for a minute. Maka gazes sleepily up at Soul as she settles back into bed- something in her feels off but she can’t put her finger on it.

“Well,” Soul says finally. “I’ll let you get back to sleep.”

“Right.” Their conversation from earlier replays in Maka’s head. “Soul?”

He pauses. “Yes?”

The apology on her lips falters. “Thank you,” she says again.

She thinks that he might brush it off again but something flashes across his face, materializing and vanishing so quickly that she can’t get a good look at it. Soul gives her a tiny salute before he disappears. “Anytime.”

Just as Maka is drifting into sleep, she realizes what it was she’d been feeling that had made her feel odd.

It was peace.


	6. Deja Vecu

###  Deja Vecu

\---

**Noun; Deja vecu can be translated as “I have already experienced this.” The experience of having seen an event before but in great detail, such as recognizing smells and sounds. This is also usually accompanied by a very strong feeling of knowing what is going to come next.**

**\---**

**January**

**\---**

“Begone, vile spirit!”

Maka watches the spray of holy water that Father Justin flicks in the air miss Soul by a solid two feet.

Soul drifts by, legs stretched out and crossed leisurely in front of him. “Is this the part where I’m supposed to scream in agony while I vanish in a puff of smoke?” he asks. “I missed my cue.”

He smirks innocently as Maka swells with the reply he knows she cannot give him.

She chews on her words for a moment before turning to the priest, who is currently blessing the stairway. “Thank you, Father Justin,” she says with a brittle kind of graciousness. “The house feels lighter already.”

The priest surprises her by clasping her hands in his. “Of course, my dear child,” he says, eyes filling with reverence. “That is the power of God.”

“Right.” Maka pulls her hands away and starts to head for the the front door. She had met the overly pious priest four years ago during her parents’ divorce and promptly vowed after their meeting that she would never interact with the priest again; calling him had been an act of pure desperation. She turns back towards the priest. “But everything’s better now so-”

“But nothing is better,” he exclaims, seizing her hand again. “This is but a temporary solution for your problem.”

Summoning the last of her patience, Maka turns and gives the priest the widest smile she can manage. “But there isn’t a problem anymore, Father.”

“There is,” the priest insists. “From the moment I saw you, I could see the deep agony residing within your heart.”

Despite her eagerness to get the priest out of her house, Maka blinks and pauses. “How did you know?”

“It was written all over your face, my child.” Father Justin releases her hand and gestures emphatically as he speaks. “Now tell me the truth,” he says. “How often do you attend church?”

The hope bubbling in Maka’s chest pops but the enthusiastic gaze of the priest makes her nervous. “Um, not usually,” she stammers. She realizes her mistake and rushes to correct herself. “I mean, sometimes, but-”

“As I thought,” he exclaims. He is the one to head to the front door now, pulling her along. “It is your lack of faith that gives you such pain. We must rectify it but all of my extra bibles are at my office.”

“My faith is perfectly fine,” Maka assures him rapidly. “There is nothing to rectify.” Soul’s laugh echoes from the living room.

“This is a matter of life and death, my dear girl,” the priest says seriously. They’re at the door now. “Your soul is in danger.”

“But I can’t go out,” she protests, wildly searching for an excuse. “My father will wonder where I am and I don’t want to worry him.”

“Oh, that is a good idea,” the priest says thoughtfully. “Perhaps we should wait for your father to come home. I have been meaning to speak to him for some time now.”

“No!” The volume of her answer startles Father Justin and Maka tamps down on her panic. The debacle from four years ago had turned the supernatural into a taboo topic and she doesn’t want to think about what Spirit would have to say about the story she fed the priest to get him to purify the house.

“What I mean is that I just remembered that he’ll be working late,” Maka says quickly in reply to the priest’s questioning look. She forces a smile. “But I’d be more than happy to hear it.”

“Excellent.” Father Justin beams at her and pats her hand. “We are always overjoyed to welcome new blood into the fold.”

Maka pries herself away. “Let me just get my bag.”

She does not meet Soul’s gaze as she walks into the living room but she feels him draw close next to her.

“New blood, huh?” he comments casually.

She hoists her bag over her shoulder. “One more word and there will actually be blood.”

He laughs as he follows her out into the hall. “Good thing I spilled all of mine already.”

**\---**

Dusk has already fallen by the time Maka emerges from Father Justin’s office, bag loaded with two bibles and countless pamphlets.

Soul speaks as they exit the church. “Shame he had to go conduct the evening service, he was really getting into it at the end.”

Maka raises a hand, giving the ghost a glare from the corner of her eye. “You are not allowed to say anything.”

“At all?”

“Or think, for that matter.”

“Someone is in a bad mood.”

“As anyone would be after hearing about the perils of hell for over an hour,” she mutters, heading to the nearest bus stop. The sky is a mix of deepening lavender and iron-colored clouds and tints the world in a greying light. Most of the little stores Maka passes are vacant and dark; a breeze whispers at her feet, promising rain. There is little hope that the bus will be running this late but the stop is on the way out of town anyways.

“I thought his description of the various circles of hell was rather vivid.”

“A little too much so, in some cases,” she says as they reach the bus stop. “Did you notice there were no mention of giant spiders?”

Soul lets out a surprised laugh. “Is that meant to be comforting?”

“Not in the slightest.” She traces her finger down the bus schedule posted by the stop and curses under her breath.

He moves closer to be next to Maka. “Bad news?”

“Nothing I didn’t already guess,” she sighs, pulling out her phone. The lack of missed calls is ominous-either Spirit had gone out drinking with his work buddies or he was out on the porch waiting for her. Neither prospect is particularly thrilling and she bites back her sigh. “Let’s go.”

Soul keeps pace beside her. “Couldn’t you call Tsubaki for a ride?”

Maka doesn’t miss the longing glance he gives her phone and she rolls her eyes, holding it out. “I don’t want to to bother her.”

The phone floats up from her palm as well as the stylus Maka digs from her pocket. “She doesn’t strike me like the kind of person to be bothered by this,” Soul comments as the opening notes of a saxophone solo drift into the air. “Or that blue-haired hurricane, for that matter.”

“Oh, really?” Maka gives him a skeptical look. “And you know this how?”

Soul’s shoulders come up defensively. “Well, I have caught bits of your conversation with them,” he says. “Not on purpose,” he adds quickly. He looks up to the sky where the full moon is peeking out from some clouds. “They’re worried about you and are too afraid to ask.”

“Thank you for informing me on how my friends are feeling about me.” There is little bite to her sarcasm because she knows it’s true, has known it since she came from the hospital nearly three months ago and promptly rejected every suggestion Tusbaki and Black Star had made to hang out since then.

“You’re welcome.” He doesn’t push and falls silent; the ghost seems to have developed a sense of knowing when her defenses are set off and he chooses to draw back every time. It fills Maka with an odd mixture of frustration and satisfaction, though recently, the frustration has been winning out.

Maka absently reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear and keeps her eyes trained on the sidewalk. Her relationship with Soul is an uneasy dance of stops and starts, a cautious tip-toeing and swift retreating across unspoken lines neither has ever clearly defined.

And the longer Soul is around, the less Maka can tell whether she even cares about the lines anymore. Because while she continues to comb through dubiously legitimate websites and internet forums for ways to sever their bond, Soul’s questions of what exactly a microwave is and the unrelated territory their talks have begun to meander into have become much more entertaining.

Far too entertaining, a voice chides her from the back of Maka’s mind, but she ignores it.

Meanwhile, Soul keeps his distance when she’s at school or around her friends, but at home, he is never more than a room away, and when they’re out and alone, he is floating either somewhere next to her or above her. And while the ghost is chronically sarcastic and has a tendency to close himself off the moment the conversation focuses on him, he never fails to come when Maka’s nightmares begin twisting her sense of reality, staying until sleep pulls her back into dreaming again.

She raises her face to the sky-she can no longer deny that somewhere along the line she has stopped tolerating his presence and started welcoming it.

The wind begins to pick up; Maka pulls her jacket sleeves over her hands, glancing discreetly at Soul. There’s a tranquil expression on his face that Maka’s rarely seen as he hums along to the beat of the music. A strange feeling dances at the edge of her heart; it’s too complex to be happiness but she still feels a smile pulling at the corners of her lips.

Maka’s hands clench suddenly and the smile disappears. She forces herself to stare back at the sidewalk again. It’s all too similar-she does not allow herself to think their names-but in her mind’s eye her ghosts’ faces materialize for an instant before fading away.

A soft sigh is the only voice Maka gives to the pain twisting inside the hole in her chest. She tugs her bag tighter to her side, as if that will hold her together-something in her would be irreparably broken if history repeated itself.

“Stop!”

Maka catches sight of the phone falling as Soul points excitedly at something, barely moving quickly enough to snag it mid-air.

She huffs and glares, snatching the stylus from the ghost. “What the hell, Soul?”

“Look.” He pays her no attention, continuing to ogle at something in a store window. 

Maka watches as he drifts through the window to the outfit on the center mannequin. He turns back to her. “Cool, right?”

She eyes the red and mustard yellow jacket on the mannequin. “That is hideous.”

“That is style.”

“Hideous style.”

“And it is still better than this.” Soul gestures to himself without pointing out the holes and bloodstains on his shirt but there is a hard glint in his eyes. “I’m tired of wearing the same thing everyday.”

Maka is quiet for a moment. “I knew a few ghosts who were able to change what they were wearing,” she says. “I don’t know how it’s done, though.”

She doesn’t elaborate on how she knows this information and Soul does not ask-he circles the mannequin, a look of concentration on his face.

“Maybe if you click your heels together three times, it’ll work?” Maka suggests after a minute of watching Soul.

He frowns in confusion. “Why would I do that?”

“Never mind.”

Soul makes an irritated noise after he paces through the mannequin a few times. “I am doing everything I can think of and I still ca-”

His clothes shift as he speaks, transforming from dark pinstripes to red and yellow. Soul gapes down at himself for a few seconds and then he looks up with a delighted grin. “How do I look?”

Maka tilts her head to one side, examining him. In the glare of the moon, his eyes almost match the scarlet of his new pants but it’s not nearly as unsettling as it should be. Finally, she raises her gaze back to his face. “It looks much better on you than the mannequin.”

He pounces on her words. “So you admit I have style.”

She snorts, moving again. “I admit you carry things better than lifeless plastic.”

“High praise.” Soul falls into step with her. “Considering I’m lifeless too, I’ll take it.”

Maka’s eyes widen and she twists towards Soul. “That’s not how I mea-”

“I know.” He waves off the rest of her apology. “Someone once told me it’s better to have a sense of humor about the things you can’t change.”

She nods slowly and bites her lip as she tries to think of a way to continue the conversation. This is the most forthcoming Soul has been about his life since the day they met in the hospital. Maka doesn’t know if it’s that Soul still can’t remember or because he doesn’t want to talk about it, but either way, his past sits between the two of them like a mountain and she isn’t sure if it’s too late to traverse it.

“Do you really want me gone?”

The question nearly doesn’t register with Maka but when it does, she stops in her tracks. By the way Soul asked, so soft the question was more air than sound, and the puzzled look he gives her now, it’s clear he didn’t mean to ask the question aloud.

The confusion on his face deepens. “Are you okay?”

As she opens her mouth, a low rasping sound scrapes against Maka’s ears.

She freezes. It’s been years since she’s heard the noise up close but she recognizes it instantly.

Poltergeists. Ever since her encounter with the demon, she’s only seen them outside of her house and is careful to avoid them but she had been too wrapped up in her thoughts to realize that her feet had automatically led her down the alley shortcut she normally uses in the day.

In her chest, Maka’s heart begins to pound and her legs tremble with the instinct to run. She pushes away the fear swamping her senses, looking left and right, and feels her blood run cold. 

The rasping comes from both ends of the alleyway.

Soul’s face floats in her vision. “Maka?”

She waves her hands frantically and crouches down, hissing, “Be quiet!”

He persists but lowers his voice. “What’s going on?”

“Poltergeists, can’t you hear them?” Maka twists her head back and forth-the lamps interspersed in the alley are dark and there are no patches of moonlight to shield herself in. By the mouth of the alley, she spies a shadow that doesn’t belong to anything in the alley. It sways innocently, like a branch in the breeze, but the keening noise emanating from it slithers down her back and digs into her spine.

Dread slides icy and sharp in the pit of her stomach. Maka looks back at the other end of the alley; three shadows circle each other endlessly on one of the building’s walls. They’re much bigger than than the poltergeists she encountered as a child.

_ They’re blind, _ she tells herself.  _ Stay quiet and they won’t notice you. _

Soul’s voice is at her ear. “Are they ghosts too?”

“I don’t know.” Her hands clench tightly around her phone and she eases back up, thumb poised over the flashlight button. “But we need to go.”

As she takes a careful step backward, Maka’s foot connects with something metal. She spins around in time to catch the falling trash can, but its metallic clang bounces noisily off the walls of the alley.

The damage is instantaneous; the entire alley erupts in a riot of furiously rabid rasping and clicking. Poltergeists Maka hadn’t even noticed peel off the walls in droves, flitting and buzzing about in the air.

She is four and helpless again-Maka’s scream comes out as a strangled whimper as she stumbles backwards and presses her back against the alley wall, sinking down to the ground. Her phone light is nothing against the growing horde of poltergeists, but she holds the phone high above her head, burying her face in her knees.

She isn’t aware of her name being yelled in her ear over and over until Soul nearly yanks the phone out of her hands. 

“Stop!” Anger pulls her voice out of the nearly soundless whisper she’s been talking in. Maka tucks the phone closer to herself and keeps her face hidden against her knees. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to get your attention.” Soul’s voice sounds directly above her. “It’s okay, we can go.”

Her head moves in a quick shake.

His voice is back by her ear. “Maka, it’s okay.”

She shakes her head again. “It’s not.” It’s hard to breathe and even harder to keep panic from taking over. “They’re not like you.”

The usual snappiness in Soul’s tone is absent. “They’re not going to hurt you.”

A laugh bubbles from Maka’s lips, frenzied, harsh and not her own. “And how are you so sure of that?”

Soul hesitates before answering. “I talked to them.”

“You what?” The shock is nearly enough to force her head up. “How?”

He evades the question. “They promised not to do anything to you.”

She laughs again, even wilder this time. “You think I’m going to trust that?”

“You trust me,” Soul says. It’s a statement but he speaks like he’s asking a question.

There’s a long pause-it’s not something Maka can answer simply so she avoids it by slowly rising to her feet. The sound of agitated rustling rises and there’s an uptick in the rasping as she stands but nothing else. Maka keeps her eyes firmly shut and her voice steady but her phone wobbles in her hands. “Why are they doing that?”

“It’s your phone.” By the sound of his voice, Soul is back in front of her again. “You have to turn off the light.”

Maka clutches the phone to her chest. “Forget it.”

“Well, unfortunately for me, I can’t forget you so it looks we’re at an impasse.”

When Maka laughs this time, a half-sob follows. She sucks in jagged and rapid breaths until she can feel something other than the terror blooming in her throat. She dares to reach one hand out. “You here?”

“Yes.” Soul’s reply is immediate but there is wooden strangeness to his voice. “I’m here.”

She lets it pass, plucking up the nerve buried underneath her fear. “Okay.” Maka nods. “Okay.”

Inhaling deeply, she pushes the flashlight button and feels the bright light pressing against her eyelids vanish.

“Still here.” She feels a lock of her hair brush back against her face and she leans into it instinctively though she knows she will feel nothing. “Ready?”

She forces herself to nod again but she doesn’t move from her spot. “I don’t want to open my eyes,” she whispers.

“You don’t have to,” Soul says. “You can follow my voice.”

There are many things Maka wants to say, but all she can manage is, “If I crash into anything, I’m going to kill you again.”

Soul’s chuckle is low and amused. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

It takes everything in Maka to take the first step; she moves rigidly, arms curled around herself as she waits for the poltergeists to break their word and attack. But even though the rasps intensify, nothing happens to her after she takes one step and then another.

In front of her, Soul guides Maka forward with careful prompting. “Stop. Now turn left. Little more. Too much. Okay, now you can go.”

After a minute of nothing but endless grating against her ears, Maka speaks to distract herself. “How close are we?”

“Maybe about half to the halfway point?”

A tiny snort escapes from her lips. “You could have just said a fourth.”

“Yes, but which one sounds better?” Soul counters. “Broken board ahead of you.”

They move in a faltering rhythm of tiny steps and agonizing inches when the poltergeists’ rasping ventures too close and Maka’s fear gets the better of her. Soul encourages and directs her in equal parts, always just ahead of her.

It’s when Maka senses she’s near the alley exit that her hand grazes against something dead and rotting. Panic sends her stumbling to the ground, landing on one knee. The offended poltergeist hisses angrily, and from all around, the horde responds in kind.

“It’s okay.” Soul’s voice comes from behind her now. “Just keep walking, you’re almost there.”

Maka doesn’t answer but she stands.  _ Keep walking _ , she repeats to herself. She gives no other thought a voice.  _ Keep walking. _

Her eyes fly open when she feels the light of the street lamp wash over her. Maka shoots forward from the alley and all but collides into the street pole, wrapping her arms around it. Relief is the same as fear to her body: Maka’s knees quake uncontrollably as she struggles to get a hold on herself, breaths jittery and uneven. Swallowing hard, she straightens and does not look back towards the alley.

“That was an adventure.”

Looking up, Maka finds herself nearly nose to nose with Soul. His mouth is open to speak but he doesn’t say anything else and neither does Maka. There are emotions swimming in his eyes that send a wave of uneasy recognition through her body; somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice notes his eyes are  _ definitely _ turning crimson while another whispers that she just might like this color better than his previous eye color.

Finally, Soul moves his gaze from hers and clears his throat. Nothing of before remains in his eyes when he looks back at her again. “So.”

Maka braces for the deluge of questions.

Instead, the ghost only asks one. “Can we please call Tsubaki?”

**\---**

Black Star is in the front passenger seat when Tsubaki arrives, pulling her jeep smoothly to the side of the street. “You’re as pale as a ghost,” he informs Maka as she climbs into the back.

Maka means to shoot back a snappy retort but all that comes out of her mouth is a shrill giggle.

She doesn’t miss the look that passes between him and Tsubaki and avoids looking at Soul entirely.

“I’m in the mood for some waffles,” announces Tsubaki, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel as she puts the jeep in drive. The soft sweep of her eyes as she looks back at Maka is more cutting than any glare. “How about you?”

Answering is impossible for Maka at the moment so she gives a half-hearted shrug.

Sid’s diner is empty when the four enter. Black Star calls into the kitchen as they head to a booth. “I’m here.”

“Instead of at home, doing your homework,” comes Sid’s gruff reply. The towering man emerges from the kitchen. He brightens when he sees Tsubaki but his eyes widen in shock when he spies Maka. “Well, look who finally came to visit.”

She nods her hello with a mix of sheepishness and shame; her near-daily visits to the diner, usually with Black Star and Tsubaki in tow, had swiftly dwindled down to nothing after she came home from the hospital.

Sid frowns. “Am I really that much of a stranger to you now?” His tone is teasing but the concern underlying at it plucks at her guilt.

“Of course not,” Maka mumbles. She shuffles forward, forcing a smile. She lets out a small “oof” as Sid envelopes her in a hug. 

“That’s what I thought,” the man says, patting her shoulder.

She swallows; the bone-crushing feeling that accompanies his hugs is familiar but it’s not what is making her eyes sting.

“Go sit.” He releases her. “I’ll make you our special, on the house.”

“Extra whipped cream on mine,” Black Star tacks on as Tsubaki loops her arm with Maka’s and leads her to a booth.

It feels something like an interrogation as Tsubaki and Black Star slide in on one side of the booth and Maka sits on the other. There’s no menu to hide behind so her hands pick at the napkin dispenser. Occasionally, her gaze darts at Soul, who sits next to her even though he usually floats above the table.

Tsubaki seems content to stay silent but Black Star cuts straight to the point without preamble. “Where the hell have you been?”

She stares, shocked. Then she bristles. “I’ve been here,” she says heatedly. “Where have you been?”

“Getting ignored by you,” he responds loudly.

Maka’s hand crumples her napkin. “And it’s taken you this long to say something?”

Black Star begins to scoff but Tsubaki interjects. “We know you’ve needed your space,” she says delicately. She makes no reference to her brother but her eyes smolder with the ashes of a person who watched part of herself die with a loved one, mourned and healed and hurt and healed again. “But there is too much of being alone.”

Maka gives her head a shake stubbornly. “I haven’t been alone.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Soul’s head rises.

Tsubaki’s expression doesn’t change. “Then where have you been?”

Maka’s reply from before hovers on her lips, wavering and vanishing. Her shoulders sag. “I don’t know.”

Sid comes out at that moment, carrying a tray loaded with food, and they all fall silent. “Here we are,” he says cheerfully, pretending as if he couldn’t hear their conversation from the kitchen with the diner being deserted.

After he disappears back into the kitchen, Black Star speaks. “You’ve still got us, you know.” The anger in his voice is gone.

“You always did,” Tsubaki tacks on.

Something in Maka’s chest constricts. She looks between the two of them and then at her waffles. “I know.”

Black Star dribbles syrup onto his tower of waffles before offering the container to her. “Then act like it.”

**\---**

The clouds have mostly cleared out when Maka emerges from her bathroom, freshly showered and wearing in sweats. Her knee pricks with a dull ache as she walks into her room, drawing her damp hair into a ponytail. She flops onto her bed and stares up at the ceiling, feeling the slow return of thoughts that prick like lightning boring a hole in her brain. They had been easy enough to ignore while adrenaline paced through her veins and then afterwards with Tsubaki and Black Star, but now that Maka had nothing to distract herself with, they crawl back to the forefront of her mind with a brutal kind of relentlessness. 

Maka curls within herself and moves her mind in circles and spirals-she was born for motion and she deals with her feelings in the same way, but when it comes to things she can’t control, her pattern falls apart and so does she.

Her skin starts to itch when she thinks of her conversation with Black Star and Tsubaki at the diner, about how much she’s withdrawn over the past three months. She’s nothing of the friend she was before and while it would be easy to assign her blame away, it had been no one but her who had chosen to withdraw.

The itch intensifies into a sharp point when she thinks of her father. Like she predicted, Spirit had been waiting for Maka, springing up from his spot on the porch as soon as Tsubaki’s truck had turned onto their driveway. Her and Black Star’s corroboration that yes, Maka had been with them the entire time she was out was enough to stem the initial flurry of questions spilling from Spirit, although it had still taken a round of questioning worthy of a police interrogation after they left before he finally let the subject rest. 

But out of everything, it was Spirit’s face before he had seen Maka in the passenger seat, full of an anguished worry she’d never seen before, that felt like a sucker punch to the gut and replays in Maka’s head over and over. When it occurs to her that it probably was the same expression Spirit wore three months ago when he received the news that she had been struck by a truck, the guilt festering in her veins spills over.

Gritting her teeth, Maka yanks her pillow over her head but it’s not enough to quash the thoughts roiling in her head. When she tries to move them elsewhere, her mind helpfully supplies the feeling of the poltergeist against her hand.

Something inside of her cracks. Her mind isn’t full of scars and neatly sealed boxes of emotion like she had thought; everything is open and bleeding, splits open even wider as every jagged memory she’s ever buried rips free and spreads to all of the corners of her mind.

She is drowning, suffocating, choking. Maka hurls away the pillow and leaps off the bed, feet fumbling and hands knotting in her hair as she paces haphazardly around the room, as if she’s able to outrun herself.

She comes to a stop when the world starts to spin, running into her window sill. She sags against it and rests her forehead against the cold glass, breathing in deeply as the coolness spreads down her face, but it does nothing to slow her racing heart. Forcing her eyes shut, Maka searches for a calm she can only find when she’s sleeping, but like everything she’s ever tried to hold onto, it’s gone, disappeared, vanished. She pushes her thoughts down one by one but they bounce up like springs and hack at the insides of her head in the way only thoughts can do.

Her eyes begin to burn the longer she tries and fails to calm herself. If she doesn’t get a grip Soul will come, called to her by the burning in his hand, but those moments have always been because of nightmares, and the last thing Maka wants him to see is how she can also be unraveled by her thoughts.

Pressing her hands over her face in a final attempt to compose herself, Maka is surprised by the chill in her right hand-it’s colder than usual, biting into her skin with a sharp harshness. It’s enough to pull her away from her cresting panic and she studies her hand, feeling it slowly grow colder.

It takes Maka a long time to search the house-Spirit can be the lightest and heaviest of sleepers and it’s a guessing game she doesn’t want to risk tonight. However, all of her caution is for nothing: Soul isn’t in the house nor is he in the front or backyard.

Maka returns to her room, frustrated and baffled. She runs a hand through her hair, thinking hard. There was no way Soul isn’t somewhere near her but if he not in the house, then where is he?

She scours her brain, coming up with nothing until her eyes fall back on the window. Striding to the window, Maka flings it open and sticks her head out.

Soul sits out on the porch roof that spans the house, nearly translucent in the moonlight.

With a half-annoyed and half-relieved click of her tongue, Maka draws back inside, grabs the jacket from the chair by her desk and hauls it on as she steps out of the window and onto the roof.

Soul doesn’t turn his head from the sky as she approaches and takes a seat beside him. Maka looks up as well. The sky is a velvety black that swallows everything except the moon but, for once, the darkness is gentle.

She doesn’t break the silence and neither does Soul. Maka inhales deeply and feels the tightness in her lungs begin to ease. Her heart is still drumming in her chest but she can finally taste something in her mouth other than acidic panic. Maka’s mind still throbs with the wounds her memories tore open, but the voices in her head are more manageable in the presence of someone else and the certainty that she is on the verge of dying dims.

Finally, Maka speaks, her voice a soft murmur rippling out into the dark. “Is this where you go at night?”

“Yes.”

“You never told me.”

From the corner of her eye, she sees Soul’s shoulders come up in a half-hearted shrug. “You never asked.” There is a clipped tone to his voice that is unlike his sarcasm and she recognizes it as the tone  _ she _ uses to hide panic.

She accedes. “Fair enough.” 

She chances a look at him and it’s like looking in a mirror. Soul’s hands are splayed out as he continues to gaze up, legs crossed in front of him. It’s deceptive and draws away from the little details, but Maka has been in the same position too many times not to see them. Soul’s jaw is rigid like he’s clamped his teeth down on something he can’t let go of and his legs are so intertwined that it’s painful to see.

But it’s his face that tell her everything he won’t. Soul’s eyes are full of everything and devoid of all and in her entire time among ghosts, Maka has never seen someone as dead as he is.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she says when it’s clear Soul is not going to answer. She doesn’t mention the reason why she came outside-help is not help when it’s forced and Soul is locked too tightly in his head for her words to reach him. “I’m guessing you couldn’t either.”

It tugs a weak smile out of him. “Not exactly.”

It’s too early of an opening to push. “It’s a nice view though,” she comments. 

He nods but his voice is grudging. “It’s something.”

“The night still must be long.” Maka stretches out her legs. “Do you get bored?”

The moonlight stains his hair an artificial silver. “Not really.” Soul’s head dips down a fraction but his face is still pointed upwards. He mumbles the words like he’s embarrassed. “I count the stars.”

“Every night?”

“Only sometimes,” he answers. “I wanted to count them tonight.”

“Why?”

Soul finally looks at Maka. There’s the tiniest crack between the mask he wears and his face and she waits. His hands fidget but his eyes don’t leave hers as Soul visibly chews on his words. “It’s loud.”

Maka still waits.

“Is that what I’ll turn into?” The twisting of his hands quickens. “A poltergeist?”

The denial rises up automatically but she hesitates.  _ I talked to them. _

Soul’s expression goes distant after a moment and he rises up. “You don’t have to spare my feelings, you know.” He turns away. “I don’t need your pity either.”

Her hold on her patience dissolves. Maka springs up and swerves in front of Soul, pushing her face close to his. 

“I don’t know a thing about what you’ll turn into,” she says fiercely, jabbing a finger at him. “But I do know who you are and you have never been someone to pity.” Something shifts in Soul’s face but she doesn’t give him room to talk. “And you’re much more than whatever they are, much more than you think you are.”

She steps back, heart thrumming in her chest.

Soul’s face is painted in complete shock. It peels back slowly but even after it disappears, the ghost stays silent even though his expression is one of someone who still has something to say.

Maka sucks in a breath and gestures awkwardly to the window. “You can come in,” she says. Her face burns as she speaks. Soul has only ever been in her room when she’s having a nightmare but she knows fighting the demons in her head is easier when she’s with someone, although she has no idea if it’s the same for him. “If you need it.”

She shrugs when he doesn’t answer though it does nothing to erase the flush creeping across her face. “Okay then.”

“Wait.” He materializes in front of Maka. She takes some solace in noting he looks as embarrassed as she feels. “I-” He speaks to the ground instead of her. “Only if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t.”

“Okay.”

“All right.”

They peek up at each other and look away, moving towards the window at the same time.

Soul tucks himself in the corner by her desk as Maka crawls underneath her blankets. She stares into fuzzy darkness. Even with the uncomfortable tension stretching between them, there is something soothing about Soul’s presence and she knows she will sleep tonight despite the memories and emotions that cleaved themselves free-they will be smaller in the morning and she will be stronger then. She yawns, exhaustion hitting her like a brick, and snuggles deeper into her bed.

Maka is more asleep than awake when Soul speaks quietly. “I need to figure out who I am,” he says.

She says nothing but turns towards his voice, listening.

“I think it will help,” he says. “With everything.”

She hears the question underlying his words.

“Okay,” Maka says, nodding. “I’m in.”


	7. Recumbentibus

### Recumbentibus

\---

**Noun; A knockout punch, either verbal or physical.**

\---

**May**

**\---**

“Watch out.”

Maka opens her eyes in time to keep herself from face-planting in her cereal. She jerks her head back, swallowing a giant yawn. “Thanks.”

Soul shakes his head at her from across the kitchen. The plate he levitates slides into its spot in the drawer next to the stove and the door snaps shut with a wave of his hand. “I told you staying up was a bad idea.”

“Well, maybe if I had some help, I could have gone to bed earlier.” Her scowl is ruined by another yawn bubbling on her lips. Maka rubs at her eyes. “And we would have made more progress.”

“You’re forgetting the convenient fact that there is nothing to make progress on.”

“According to you.”

He rolls his eyes. “More like according to the facts.”

“There is something in here,” Maka insists, tugging the city’s public records from the 1950’s  towards her. She had been appalled when she’d first learned all of the Orcus Hollow’s archives before 1943 had burned in the fire that consumed the old town and it’s a fact that still offends her, four months later. “I know it.”

She pulls out a dog-eared sheet of paper from between the pages. “I found ten more names for us to check,” Maka says, studying the list. Given Soul’s initial bafflement about planes and cars along with the style of his suit, she’d figured he had lived sometime in the twenties or thirties, making the fact that every record from that period had been burned to a crisp even more regrettable. It hadn’t dimmed her determination though-she’d began compiling family names to hunt down in the Orcus Hollow library’s archive and to shove old newspaper photos in Soul’s face in the hopes he recognized someone. It was an arduous process but there was no other way around it.

Soul lets out a groan. “If I have to spend another afternoon in that dusty basement, I’m going to lose my mind.”

“We’ve barely gone once this week,” she points out as she picks up her bowl and rises. “And it’s my allergies that suffer, not yours.”

“Well, you know where my vote lies.”

Maka pauses in rinsing out the bowl. “Yes,” she says. “And you know where mine lies.”

“They won’t bother you, _I_ won’t let them bother you.”

“No.”

Even though she’s turned away from him, Maka can still sense Soul’s pout. He had suggested going row by row through Orcus Hollow’s cemetery from nearly the very beginning of their investigation and she had roundly refused every time, citing her reluctance to be among so many ghosts and evading answering Soul’s subsequent questions with a neat deftness.

And in the beginning, that had been true. Maka sets the bowl on the drying rack and starts scrubbing the dish soap from her hands. But it’s nearly touching June now and she can only stretch out her excuse without an explanation for so long.

She dries her hands and turns-she can tell by the look on Soul’s face that the old question of _why_ is on the brink of his tongue again and she speaks quickly. “We’d better go.”

Maka grabs her backpack and swings it on her shoulder, returning to the kitchen to retrieve a box of cat treats from the top of the refrigerator. She shakes a few into her hand and replaces the box back in its place.

As they exit the house, she drops them in the tiny plastic bowl by the door. The stray cat that lives around Maka’s home and begs for scraps has an odd tendency to disappear in the fall and return in the spring, but it’s nearly summer and Maka has yet to see the cat. However, the treats keep disappearing and sometimes she finds familiar purple fur on the ground so she figures the cat has become extremely shy.

“Will I ever get to meet this infamous cat?” Soul asks as she brushes off her hands.

“Maybe,” Maka replies, shrugging. She gives him a look, raising an eyebrow and grinning. “I don’t know how she feels about ghosts.”

“If it’s anything less than positive, she has to go.”

She laughs as she locks the front door. “She’s been here longer than you.”

“And who do you prefer?”

“I don’t know.” Maka pulls out her keys from her pocket, heading down the driveway. The handle of the old truck Spirit gifted her for her sixteenth birthday is freezing as she unlocks the truck and slides inside. “She’s fluffy and a lot softer than you.”

“That is inherently unfair,” complains Soul as he settles above the passenger seat. “I can’t help that I’m dead.”

Maka laughs again but the breath she swallows is broken glass. “But on the other hand,” she muses as she twists the key in the ignition. “You do occasionally clean the dishes.” The engine protests once, twice before coming alive with a dull rumble. “And take out the trash.”

“More than occasionally,” he retorts. “But I’m glad to get _some_ recognition.”

She snorts, the truck easing out of the driveway with a low groan. “Start doing the rest of my chores and I’ll consider getting you a medal.”

He rolls his eyes, switching on the radio with a flick of his finger. “I’ll be sure to wear it proudly.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence on the rest of the drive to school. The parking lot in front of the school is mostly empty although Tsubaki’s jeep is already in her usual spot near the back of the lot.

Maka pulls into the spot next to the jeep and switches off the engine instead of lingering in the truck like she usually does. If Tsubaki is here, then so is Black Star. Even though he was three months older than her, Sid was too wise to entrust the boy with a car of his own.

“A concert,” Soul says out of nowhere.

She pauses in gathering her things. “What?”

“A concert,” he repeats, looking over at Maka. “Take me to a concert and I’ll do the rest of your chores.”

She blinks, speechless for a moment, and then a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “Why that?”

“Seeing music live is different than just hearing it.” Soul shrugs. “And I’ve never been to a concert,” he says. “Or none that I can remember, at least.”

He’s quick to hide the pang in his voice but Maka still notices the slight downturn in his voice. “And it doesn’t matter what kind of concert we go to?” she asks after a beat.

“So long as it’s not the stuff you sing along to in the bathroom.” He trails behind her as she exits the truck.

“This is coming from the person who once played The Black Parade on repeat for a week.”

“It’s a classic.”

Maka heaves her backpack on her shoulder. “I hate to break it to you but My Chemical Romance is not a classic band.”

Soul falls into step beside her. “Further evidence of your lack of musical taste.”

She pretends not to notice the small space he inserts between them. “Plus, they’re retired.”

He winces. “Don’t remind me.”

She holds back her laugh as they enter the school and waits until they’ve turned down an empty hallway to speak. “We really should do it.”

The introspective look on Soul’s face fades and he glances at Maka. “Do what?”

“Go to a concert.”

“With Tsubaki and Black Star?”

Maka shakes her head, speaking before she can change her mind. “You and me.” Rapidly, she adds, “If you want.”

Soul’s brow furrows and then smoothes, a small smile growing on his lips. “I do.”

“Okay.” Maka nods calmly even though she can feel her heartbeat thrumming in her fingertips.

His smile widens. “All right.”

**\---**

“I’m going to be leaving early,” Tsubaki says from where she works on the couch.

“You do realize we’re already at your house, right?” Black Star sticks his tongue out in concentration as he slides out a Jenga piece from the bottom of the precariously stable structure.

“No, I mean for college.” She closes her textbook and looks at Maka and Black Star, tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear. “I got into their early start program,” she says. “I decided to go.”

Maka’s eyes flick to Black Star, who stands with a blank look on his face, Jenga piece in his hand poised over the tower, and then to Soul, who is already looking at her.

She’s the one to react first. “That’s great.” She rises from her spot by the coffee table to join her on the couch and wrap her arms tightly around Tsubaki. “When do you leave?”

Her shoulders come up in a shrug. “The program starts in the first week of July so I have a month till then,” she says. “But I want to be over there for a while before that to get used to everything.”

Black Star finally speaks. “It’s only two hours away, what’s there to get used to?”

Tsubaki’s usual patience holds but the strain underneath is evident. “My apartment, roommates, the campus, the city in general,” she lists in short order. “I also have to get my textbooks and start reading.”

Black Star wrinkles his nose. “Reading textbooks in the summer?”

She barely represses the roll of her eyes. “It’ll happen to you one day.”

“Never.” He abandons the Jenga piece and goes to sit on Tsubaki’s other side. “I’ve got big plans.”

She nudges him in the shoulder. “Big plans generally require college degrees.”

“Not for me,” he rejoins.

Maka watches the casual but brittle banter between the two, unable to join in. Tsubaki’s absence won’t hurt as much as others’ have, but it firmly reminds her that everything changes and nothing, especially people, stays.

She searches for Soul and finds him sitting next to Black Star. There’s a strange expression on his face, and for a moment, she’s tempted to call out to him with the way he fits in their arrangement on the couch.

Then Black Star shifts, his elbow goes through Soul’s stomach, and the ghost is up and floating elsewhere around the room.

She’s surprised to find she’s up too; Maka looks to Tsubaki and Black Star. “My dad is coming home early,” she says in response to their puzzled looks.

“Okay,” Tsubaki says, rising to hug her again. “Make sure to drive safely.”

“I will.”

“And we’ll hang out lots before I have to go,” she promises. “I still have two weeks.”

“Of course, we will,” Black Star says. He plays with a loose strand on the hem of his sleeve. “Can’t get off that easy.”

This time, Tsubaki does roll her eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As Maka turns to go, she knocks her knee against the corner of the coffee table.

For a second, it looks like the tower will right itself and then, with an almost imperceptible quiver, it falls over.

**\---**

Maka jots down another name from Orcus Hollow’s records and then she snaps the book shut and tosses it away. “I can’t read anymore today.”

Soul glances up at her from across the room. “That’s a first for you.”

“Deciphering faded typewriter shorthand isn’t exactly a page turner,” she rejoins, flopping back on her bed and stretching. “My eyes hurt.”

“Poor you.”

She’s too tired to think of a reply so she sticks her tongue out.

Several minutes pass before Soul speaks again. “How do you feel?”

Maka forces her eyes open. “About what?”

“Tsubaki leaving.”

“It’ll be good for her,” Maka says automatically. “She deserves to be in that program.”

“Those are thoughts, not feelings.”

“Thank you, Dr. Soul.” She sits up. “Obviously, I’m going to miss her,” she says when Soul doesn’t answer. “But we’ll get to see each other during break.”

He concedes the point with a nod of his head but adds on, “Still different, though.”

“She won’t be completely gone, she’s not dead.” Maka’s voice echoes against the walls with too much heat and she goes quiet. Then she swings her legs over the edge of the bed and avoids Soul’s stare, all sleepiness gone. “I’m going to brush my teeth.”

Maka closes the door after she enters the bathroom, staring down at the floor. Her eyes meet her reflection in the mirror as she raises her head and presses her right hand against her chest. Out of everyone that has been in her life, she’d wanted Soul to be the most temporary. Even as their relationship changed, the promise of the end was the foundation of their connection.

Dropping her hand, she reaches for her toothbrush, moving absently. Soul is a contradiction; he reminds her of the dark and the twisting jazz music he plays at night: too intangible and distant to fully understand or reach but too real not to be moved by.

Maka brushes her teeth slowly. Their relationship is a contradiction too: they can communicate conversations in a single look and Soul stays in her room at night now, but there’s a quiet distance Soul has drawn around himself that she hadn’t noticed until he started placing physical space between them. He is always out of arm’s reach and Maka spends some nights staring at the distance from her to Soul, trying to understand it.

Her hands claw around the sink as Maka finishes rinsing her mouth. She and Soul are still on the same path towards permanent separation, despite the change in their relationship and herself. Soul hides his heart in too many layers and guards his words too well for her to tell if he feels as she does and to ask him directly would be to ask him to stay and even thinking about it is too selfish.

And yet she does; Soul has moved from being too near to being too far away and it terrifies her as to what he could mean by it.

 _But why would he stay with you?_ a voice murmurs from the recesses of her fears. _You’re holding him back from moving on._

It breathes too close to truth, to why she clings to digging through old newspaper archives instead of hunting for names in the cemetery, where Soul would have a better chance of remembering who he is and moving on like she’s witnessed so many ghosts do when they find peace. The stab wounds in his chest are another matter entirely, but Soul resolutely refuses to talk about them, and since his killer is most likely dead, she doesn’t bring it up.

Maka leaves the bathroom before something worse can occur to her. When she returns to her room, Soul is still in the same place by her desk, lying back in the air as his fingers move rhythmically to the soft tune that plays from her phone.

“I guess the news affected me more than I thought,” she says to his unasked question. “I’m sorry.”

“She’s your best friend, of course it should.” He waves her apology away ( _waves her away,_ the voice from before amends) and sits up. “But you still have a while before you have to say good bye.”

Maka nods and plays with a fraying thread on her blanket. “That’s true.” She glances up. “I was thinking we should go over what we have again,” she says, changing the subject. “It’s been awhile since we have and doing it might jog something.”

“For what?”  Soul wrinkles his nose but he drifts closer. “It’s a sorry excuse for a list.”

“It’s your life,” she reminds him, pulling a pen and paper from one of the books sprawled across her bed.

“That hardly makes me feel better.”

Ignoring him, she begins to read off the paper. “Your name is Soul, though it’s not likely your parents named you that so it’s probably a nickname,” she muses, tapping the pen against the sheet. “I still contend it’s Samuel or Solomon.”

“And I contend those are stupid names.”

“Parents don’t always have the best judgement,” she says. “You were also a trust fund kid.”

“Your words, not mine.”

“You called your house a mansion the first time you remembered it.”

She smiles slightly at his silent sulk and continues down the list. “You remember playing an instrument when you were little, maybe the piano.”

“Or the violin.”

Soul’s expression is hesitant but then he nods more firmly. “I remember hearing it a lot anyways,” he says. “Someone played it, at least.”

Maka scribbles it down. Soul’s moments of recollection are far and few between, crystalline tiny details and broad blurry memories that often offer no solid clues but build a slowly widening portrait of Soul before he died that is far more important to her than she’ll openly admit. “Could it have been one of your parents?”

“I don’t think so,” Soul says thoughtfully. “I think we practiced together.”

“So you might have had a sibling.”

“It could have just been another student.” He shrugs. “I don’t know if it’s worth writing.”

She gives him a look. “Everything is worth writing down, even the things you’re not sure of.”

“The only thing I’m sure of is I was murdered.” Soul’s voice is light but she notices the way his words go flat at the end.

Maka puts her pen down. “You also cheat at the Mario Kart game at the arcade.”

Soul blinks in surprise before scoffing. “I won fair and square, you’re just being a sore loser.”

“The steering wheel was working fine before it jammed to the left on the last lap,” she insists.

“Not my fault you picked the faulty steering wheel.”

“Just convenient.”

“Right.” He’s above her bed now and much closer to Maka than he has been in a long time. “You keep telling yourself that.”

“I do because it’s the truth.” She sits up, staring adamantly at him. “And I won’t stop until you admit it.”

He laughs and if he had been alive, his breath would have ruffled her hair. “You’ll be waiting a long time then.”

Her heart leaps at the implication while Maka’s mind firmly bats down the hope springing in her chest. She prays none of it shows on her face and sticks out her tongue.

“What a mature reply.”

“I try.”

As Soul speaks, head tilting to one side as he rolls his eyes, Maka spies a glint of silver in his hair.

“What’s that?” She pushes herself to her knees to get a better look at him.

He pulls back a little. “What is what?”

“Your hair,” Maka says, catching another glimpse of the patch of white hidden in the underside of his hair. “It’s turning white.”

“What?” Soul’s hands fly to his head. “No, it’s not.”

“You didn’t make as a big a deal when your eyes changed color.” She reaches up and her fingers pass through his hand and hair like mist.

Soul, however, jerks away as if she punched him. Steel comes down over his eyes. “Don’t touch me,” he snaps.

Maka’s mouth opens though nothing comes out, her arm stretched out to where he had been.

The cold hostility on Soul’s face disappears and is replaced by something like remorse but he doesn’t draw closer again. “I don’t like being touched.”

“Why?” The question escapes before Maka can think twice.

“I just don’t like it,” he says after a moment of hesitation.

There is clearly something more than that bothering him and his refusal stretches the last of her patience. “I’m just trying to understand-”

“But you wouldn’t understand.”

The rest of Maka’s words die in her throat.

Soul’s shoulders hunch and he shifts almost guiltily. “I just don’t like it,” he says again. He doesn’t quite look at her. “You have your things you don’t want to talk about and I have mine.”

Maka’s hand drops slowly. “Okay.” She sits back down on the bed, still looking up at Soul. “I’m sorry.”

Soul makes eye contact with her then, though it’s only for a second. “It’s not your fault.”

“No, I should have known.” She collects the books off her bed rapidly, keen to be done with their conversation and today. “It won’t happen again.”

Soul doesn’t reply as he watches Maka rise and pile the books on her desk. He floats to his usual spot when she switches off the room’s light. She doesn’t think he’s going to say anything else as she climbs into bed and is berating herself under her covers when he speaks.

“Good night.”

Maka turns but Soul’s back is to her.

She stares at the space between them. “Good night.”

**\---**

Maka wakes up much later than she usually does, taking one look at her phone and flying out of the bed. She flings open her closet and grabs the first shirt she sees before rooting through her drawer for shorts that will match. To Soul she hisses, “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I tried,” he retorts. “You pulled the pillow over your head.”

“There is something called trying harder.” She pauses in her search, glancing to Soul. There is none of the anger or revulsion from last night on his face; it makes her heart unclench slightly but the leaden feeling in her stomach persists.

“I’ll be sure to keep it in mind,” he says. “Weren’t you panicking about being late?”

Her eyes widen at the reminder and she pulls out a pair of shorts from the drawer and bolts for her bathroom. She pulls the door shut behind herself and leans against it for a moment, exhaling loudly. Her eyes meet her reflection in the mirror-if Soul is content to forget last night, then so iss she.

When Maka emerges from the bathroom and heads downstairs twenty minutes later, she’s surprised to find Spirit still in the kitchen. He turns as she approaches. “Good morning.”

She accepts the glass of orange juice he offers, downs it on two swift gulps, and hands the cup back to Spirit. “Thanks.”

He takes back the glass, frowning. “You’re getting shadows under your eyes.”

“It’s almost finals week,” she answers, dodging the question. “Everyone has them.”

The parental concern doesn’t leave his voice. “School has never made you sleep nearly an hour past your alarm.”

“I am allowed to be tired and that was completely by accident,” Maka says, opening a cabinet for a bowl. She changes the subject. “I thought you had left already.”

“When I noticed you were late in coming down, I wondered if I should pack your breakfast or not.” Spirit gestures to the counter in front of him and Maka looks down at the plate she thought was his. He still buys the tater tots with a smiley face that she loved as a kid for her even though she has since long outgrown them.

The kitchen blurs and then disappears as Maka wraps her arms around Spirit. Her throat grows tight. Spirit has succeeded where she has failed, loving her despite her flaws; there is little Maka has done in the past seven months to deserve his quiet support and the patience he treats her with, and yet, Spirit does it without holding it against her.

She mumbles to keep her voice steady. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

“Of course.” Spirit’s arms come around her shoulders. “I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye.”

Correcting him would break the fragile hold she has on her self-control so she only hugs him more securely.

The hug breaks too early; Spirit ruffles her hair and steps back. “I’ll see you later tonight, okay?”

Maka dips her head, keeping her face low and herself busy until she hears the front door close. Staring up at the ceiling furiously, she rubs at her eyes and then grabs her plate, popping a tater tot in her mouth as she heads for the table.

Soul is waiting in the dining room. He says nothing as Maka sits and begins to scarf down her breakfast, which she finds odd since the ghost never passes up the opportunity to rib on Spirit, the target of his occasional pranks. Instead, his expression is thoughtful the entire time she eats and he doesn’t speak until they are outside.

“I can’t wait till we’re out of school.”

Maka gives an amused snort. “We?”

“I have to sit through your classes too,” he reminds her as he trails her to the truck. “They’re boring.”

“Knowledge is never boring,” she counters. “But if you don’t like my classes, you could always go to one of the neighboring classes.”

“Would I actually be allowed to be a ghost in a different classroom?”

“Absolutely not.”

He pulls a face. “A few rattling desks and a couple floating pencils never hurt anybody.”

“But it would hurt you.” She unlocks the truck. “It’s only two more weeks and then it’ll be summer break.”

“ _Too_ long if you ask me.”

“Very funny.” Maka slides the key in the ignition and twists. An ominous knocking comes from the engine and the truck coughs to life weakly before fizzling out.

Alarm spreads through Maka as she stares at the key and turns it again. The engine splutters only once before dying again.

“Um.”

Ignoring Soul, she jams the key forward but the truck doesn’t even react. “Work,” she mutters as she tries again. “Work.”

“I don’t think it’s going to work,” Soul says after her fifth attempt. “Looks pretty dead to me.”

She grits her teeth. “Really?”

“That’d be my expert opinion as a fellow dead thing.”

A humorless laugh escapes Maka, despite herself. Clenching her hands, she resists beating her frustration on the steering wheel and takes several deep breaths before glancing to Soul. She gestures towards the hood. “Could you do something?”

He lifts his hands with his palms up. “I’m a ghost not a mechanic.”

“Perfect.” Maka inhales deeply and flips through her options. Spirit will be at the station by now, preoccupied with a million things, while calling Tsubaki all the way out to her house would make both of them late. Coming to the obvious conclusion, she yanks the key from the ignition and flings open her door, pulling her backpack on her shoulder. “Guess we’re walking.”

Soul joins her. The space he keeps between them only fans Maka’s irritation. “At least, it’s a nice day.”

She throws him a dark glare.

“Or not,” he amends.

Even though Maka hasn’t walked to school since her accident, the path is still etched in her feet. She walks along the edge of the road, eyes picking out the small path winding into the forest. Her shoes sink into the soft dirt as she walks off the road and past the trees bordering the woods.

“Why are we going this way?”

Stopping, she turns to find Soul hovering at the edge of the road. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says, although his face says otherwise. He drifts forward though he stays just outside the boundary of the forest. Sunlight filters through him like glass and washes out the color in everything but his eyes. “It just makes me a little uneasy.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” Something wars briefly against the hesitation on his face. “I guess it’s too easy to get lost.”

She waves his worry away. “There are trails running up and down all over the forest, haven’t you seen them?”

“No,” he answers. ““The only chance I have to go into the forest is at night and-” Soul breaks off and shrugs. “I haven’t wanted to.”

“Well, I can assure you that you’ll be very safe with me.” Maka turns back to the forest. “Bears went extinct here a long time ago and the squirrels are ferocious but manageable.”

Soul follows. “What a relief to know that I’m safe from the squirrels.”

In spite of her words, Maka’s skin begins to prickle the further they move away from the treeline. Memories whisper to her in the rustling of the leaves, dance across her skin when a branch brushes against her arm and call up a creeping anxiety in her veins.

“What’s wrong?” Soul’s voice pulls her out of her reverie.

Maka looks at him and he lifts his hand, his sign that he won’t be fooled by excuses. She bites her lip-she’s never told Soul the whole story on how she nearly died, only that she had been hit by a car.

“Is it alright if I tell you later?” she says finally. “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

Soul gazes at Maka for a moment before he nods. “So long as you’re okay.”

“I am,” she promises and it’s true-the nervousness crawling through her body has faded.

“All right,” he says. “Whenever you’re ready to talk.”

They lapse into silence. Maka’s heart continues to beat faster than usual, although it’s for a different reason now. Soul is not the only one who has been keeping distance between them, she realizes as she walks. It has always been a challenge to suppress her emotions, not express them, but when it comes to talking about the things that terrify her, she shuts down; fear is controlling and all-consuming and the only thing she hates more than feeling helpless is other people seeing it. Showing weakness is a risky business; there is no telling whether people will leave or stay upon seeing it nor the chance to take it back, and Maka has had enough of people leaving for a lifetime.

Her fingers trace the hem of her shirt absently. But if she trusts Soul, then maybe he would do the same; if she is honest about the hole in her chest that rips open more than she is willing to admit, then maybe they could work on sealing it shut together.

Maybe she could finally move on and heal, a hopeful voice suggests.

Maybe she could live.

“I was here before.”

Soul’s words barely break the silence but they echo in Maka’s ears. “What?”

He’s frozen in the middle of the trail, eyes wide and wondering with recognition. “This place,” he whispers. Soul twists his head slowly back and forth. “I was killed here.”

“Here?” Maka looks around herself as well, uneasiness trickling down her veins.

“Not here exactly,” he says slowly. Soul moves agitatedly, darting between the trees, back to the trail and then back again. “There was something else, more than just this.”

“Do you remember what it was?” she asks.

Soul stops. “I don’t know.” He shakes his head vigorously. “Maybe.”

“Could you describe it then?”

“No, I-” He drifts in circles, head constantly swiveling. “I need to see it,” he says. “It was close by.”

“Well, maybe we shou-”

Soul shoots into the trees without warning.

“Hey!” Maka scrambles after him, nearly stumbling over a fallen tree branch as she struggles to catch up to Soul. She flicks her gaze up from where he races through the forest to the ground in front of her. “Slow down!”

If he hears her, Soul shows no indication he did, keeping the same pace. Maka can only catch glimpses of his hair flashing among the trees and shove herself in the way Soul turns when he abruptly changes his direction.

The forest grows increasingly twisted, darker and colder as Maka follows Soul, the telltale signs of the other paths in the forest fading and disappearing. Spirit taught her the language of the forest well, however-they are headed north, past her house and into the former outskirts of old Orcus Hollow.

A thick silence blankets around Maka the further they venture in, the ever-present sounds of the forest and its wildlife extinguishing suddenly. Doubt sprouts in Maka’s mind. Everything rings too closely to the last time she was in the forest; the voice that whispers betrayal from the back of her mind hums to life but Maka pushes it and her worry down firmly and quickens her pace.

She’s so focused on her feet and keeping Soul in view that it takes her by surprise when the ground turns from soft and compact to mushy and viscous; it throws her off and she trips forwards, arms waving frantically as she tries to regain her balance.

The air is humid and sticky, clinging to Maka like a second skin as she takes a look around herself. Marshlands extend as far as she can see, patches of brown-green grasses and reeds dotting the vast expanse of water in front of her, strangely opaque although the sun is fully above the horizon, while behind Maka stands the forest. The road is nowhere in sight, though she knows she’ll find it if she heads west long enough.

There is also no sign of Soul, though since she isn’t writhing in pain, he can’t be too far away. Still, Maka hesitates in moving forward; unlike the forest, the bog is open and peaceful, the air alive with the distinct buzz of mosquitoes and dragonflies flitting about while a gentle breeze ripples through the grasses. But the feeling of something that is just _off_ needles at the serenity of the wetlands-the peace is the same before a storm, false and foreboding, and everything in Maka pulls her back towards the forest.

A cold shock goes through her right hand and Maka starts. She whips her head from side to side. “Soul?”

The chill spreads from her hand to the rest of her body when Soul doesn’t answer and she plunges forward. There is no room for fear as she traces the edge of the bog, calling his name.

She finds him just beyond the bend of a curve in the wetlands, standing where the water overlaps with the land. It’s a fight to make it over to Soul, mud squelching and sucking at her feet as she struggles forward.

“It’s there,” Soul says without looking at Maka. “That’s where I died.”

She follows his gaze across the water to where a tree stands alone in the middle of the bog. The tree is gnarled, grows at a slant and looks half-dead, spidery branches stretching out to the sky. It is what’s wrong with this place, her instinct informs her though logic rebuffs the idea.

“But how?” Maka finally asks. She chooses her words carefully. “You didn’t drown.”

“I _know_.” His outline blurs as he bounces up and down in impatience. “But it was there.”

She doesn’t push the argument. “What do you want to do now?”

“I-” Soul turns to look at her for the first time since he abandoned the trail. “I want to go out there.”

“Okay,” she says, slightly confused. The tree is not far out enough to trigger their bond pain. “Go ahead.”

Soul doesn’t move; his expression is full of unspoken thoughts she doesn’t understand. He moves as he speaks, as if it’s physically painful to be still. “I don’t want to go alone.”

Maka glances from Soul to the tree. “You do realize that I can’t float through air like you.”

“It’s not that far,” he coaxes.

“Exactly, so why can’t I watch you from here?”

He comes to a stop in front of her. “Please?”

She makes the mistake of meeting his eyes as she opens her mouth to refuse and sighs before giving in. “All right.”

The grin he gives her is almost blinding. “Thank you.”

Growing apprehension stiffens her movements as Maka inches away from the ground and into the water. She keeps her shoes on as she travels further in-making a trip to the emergency room for cutting her foot is one she’d prefer not to make and her shoes are already ruined beyond repair from the mud.

The bogwater is surprisingly warm but it doesn’t take away the unease as she watches her feet disappear into its darkness. The water ends at Maka’s hips, bordering between uncomfortableness and dread.

Soul is in the water as well, leaving no trail of rippling water behind him as he moves beside her. His gaze flits everywhere, like he’s looking for something, while Maka’s hand becomes colder and colder.

She talks to distract him. “Anything else coming back to you?”

He starts. “What?”

“Anything else?” she repeats, hiding her frown. “New memories?”

“Oh, no,” he answers, though he isn’t quite looking at her as he speaks. “Nothing.” His voice is tinted with the closed-off tone he uses when he doesn’t want to talk.

Maka nods but doesn’t add anything more.

They’re halfway to the tree when something cold and leathery brushes against the back of her ankle.

Her heart slams against her chest as she roots herself in place. “What was that?”

Soul gives her a perplexed look. “What was what?”

“Something just touched me.” Her words are rapid and high-pitched, breaths turning shallow. She thinks quickly-it had the feeling of a poltergeist but it was morning and the sun was shining so it couldn’t be one.

She becomes aware of Soul talking. “Couldn’t it have been an animal?”

“No, I-maybe.” Maka whips her head back and forth-it’s all but impossible to see more than the outline of her feet.

“It was probably just a fish.” Soul floats in front of her. “Come on,” he says. “We’re almost there.”

Maka gives in without further argument-the faster they reach the tree, the sooner she can get out of the water. She hasn’t taken more than ten more steps when whatever is in the water grazes past her legs again but this time, it’s accompanied by the distinct feel of fingers curling around her foot.

With a scream, she jerks away and lurches through Soul, catching a glimpse of his face as something seizes her hand and drags her underwater.

Water forces itself into Maka’s mouth and down her throat as she thrashes against whatever has her in a death grip; she coughs only to swallow more water while whatever holds her down pulls her into a crushing embrace.

She pulls an arm free before her attacker can pin both of her arms to her body. Lashing out blindly, her fingers sinks into something soft and spongy; she pushes and digs until she feels a soft pop but it does nothing to loosen the thing’s hold on her. Darkness seeps into the corners of her vision, breathing panic into her limbs.

Maka’s lungs and muscles beg for release; her hand scrabbles against the bog bed, seizing the first rock she touches. There is no aim in her frantic thrust but she hits home. A series of cracking and snapping sound out in the muffled silence as she drives the rock and her hand forward. Something round, bloated and rubbery halts her hand but she pushes until it is pulp against her fingers.

The grasp on her body loosens and she wrenches herself to the side and upward, head breaking the surface. Her stomach heaves and her throat is on fire as she tries to cough up water in her lungs and breathe at the same time.

Her scream comes out a dry rasp when something bumps against her leg. Whirling around, Maka gets a clear look at the rotting corpse floating on the surface of the bog in the blinding light of the sun. Its skin is tattered and greying, clinging to bleached white bones; the right eye of the corpse is a mangled deflated mass of tissue dribbling out of the corpse’s exposed socket.

Bile rises in Maka’s mouth when she sees the gaping cavern that used to be the corpse’s chest and realizes what the round object that she ground to mush was; she doubles over and retches when she looks down at her hand and sees tiny bits of tissue under her fingernails.

A throbbing ache blooms in her temples as she straightens. Rubbing her face furiously, Maka raises her head and looks for Soul.

He is floating nearby and begins to speak rapidly when her gaze falls on him. “I tried pulling it off of you but it didn’t work, nothi-”

“You knew it was there,” she interrupts in a hoarse whisper. “You led me straight into it.”

“No!” Soul makes as if to move closer to her, hands open as if to touch her but he stops, drawing back.

Something snaps and then shatters in Maka. “This was a bad idea.”

Soul blinks before nodding rapidly. “I know, we should have nev-”

“No,” Maka cuts him off. She lets the anger building in her palms guide her words, gesturing to distance between them. “ _This_ was a bad idea.”

The ghost stares at her like he’s never seen her before. “What are you talking about?”

His confusion is so genuine and he sounds so hurt that it throws her for a second. Then she remembers the expression on his face before she went under the water.

Repulsion mixed with resentment.

“Maka?”

She squeezes her eyes shut because if she looks at Soul, then she won’t say what needs to be said. She has always been left behind with her palms bleeding because she tried to hold too tightly onto things that were meant for leaving; it has worn her soul to dust, turned people into scars, and the last thing she wants is for Soul to be a scar.

“It’s really too bad for you that I didn’t die.”

It was harsh, she was too harsh, but misdirected anger keeps her voice steady and her resolve firm.

“Wha-”

“We agreed to work together for one reason and it’s not working out.” Her words are so cold, she sounds like a different person entirely.

Soul doesn’t let Maka interrupt him a third time. Somehow he is close enough that she can see her reflection in his eyes. “What are you suggesting exactly?”

Maka doesn’t speak, watching Soul as he watches her.

“We leave each other alone.”

Something breaks in his eyes and for an instant, she wonders if she’s made a mistake.

“We leave each other alone,” she repeats, dropping her gaze. “We stay away from each other.”

She presses her hands against her side to keep them from balling into fists. “The memories will come,” she says. “And you will move on.”

Maka turns away. “Then we can both be free of this.”


	8. Interlude

Gazing down at the floating body in the bog, Giriko taps his chin thoughtfully, rolling his tongue over his teeth before inhaling deeply. Beyond him, the illusion of the tree wavers and vanishes in his presence, revealing a house in its place.

His eyes open slowly as he exhales; he vaguely recognizes the scent of the human but he knows the ghost very well.

He should know; after all, the boy’s blood had been all over his hands as he sent him through the rift to Arachne.

He can only imagine her anger when she finds out one of her sacrifices made it back to Earth, somehow.

“It was a real show earlier,” a voice says. The demon doesn’t show itself and he knows it’s to annoy him so he keeps his words level.

“You saw?”

“Obviously.”

He grits his teeth. The demon has taken to doing what it wants in recent years, but it’s the only demon left from Arachne and useful in drawing sacrifices to him, so he tolerates it with a barely hidden contempt.

“They’re bound,” the demon says. “The ghost and the human.”

A low swear escapes from Giriko. It would have been possible to send the ghost back to Arachne, but a human sacrifice requires the rift to be open and it won’t be open for another four months.

“Keep an eye on them.” He glares in the direction of the demon. “But don’t do anything until the rift opens up again.”

“My dear boy, do you know how old I am?” the demon says smoothly. “Though you are Lady Arachne’s most witless soul collector so allow me to say it clearly: I know how to fulfill my duty although it appears you do not.”

The heavy presence of the demon disappears. Giriko seethes and unleashes his anger on the body before before walking across the water to the house in the middle of the bog.

The vision of the house transforms back into a tree as he slams the door shut and goes to sharpen his knives.

He would make no mistakes this time.

**\---**

Azusa tosses a file on Stein’s desk. “Marie said to give this to you and to be ready to leave in fifteen minutes.”

“Kind of her to give some notice this time.” Stein looks up from his computer screen, adjusting his glasses. He opens the folder and gives it a cursory glance. It’s an evolving poltergeist this time though it won’t stand much of a chance with Marie.

His gaze goes to Azusa. She still stands in the doorway of his office, which is better described as an upgraded broom closet. “Are you coming?”

She shakes her head. “You’re taking Kilik and the twins. Marie thinks it’s time they got some field experience.”

“I agree,” he says. “The twins are young but we were far younger than Kilik when we were recruited.”

“The twins won’t go anywhere that Kilik isn’t, and considering their abilities are still subject to their emotions, it’s not wise to refuse them,” Azusa replies. “And Kilik wasn’t recruited like we were so to have sent him out before now would have been too early.”

“Mhm.” It’s a clear sign that he’s done with the conversation but Azusa doesn’t leave.

She’s examining his screen and the thermal map on it, eyes piercing even outside of their missions. “You still check up on that rift.”

“It’s always dormant except on Halloween,” he says. “That’s not a coincidence.”

“No,” she concedes. “But every time we’ve investigated, nothing turns up. Besides, it’s a small rift, there’s nothing that can happen there.”

“The universe defies expectations.”

“Stop sounding like a self-help book,” she says dismissively before returning to the subject. “I assume you check on them too?”

“Spirit is an old friend.”

“And his daughter an extremely strong medium,” she tacks on swiftly. “If that’s all she is, we never properly tested her.”

“Anyways.” Stein taps the side of his glasses. “There was a spike in the rift activity a few days ago. Maybe-”

“No.”

“I didn’t even finish my sentence.”

“Immediate clairvoyants listen to the other side of their conversations out of courtesy, not necessity,” says Azusa. “And I’m telling you that using the rift as a pretext to check up on that girl isn’t a good idea. We already decided against recruiting her.”

“I know, I know.” He stands and stretches. “I was just curious to see how she was doing.”

“Your curiosity is too strong sometimes,” she says as she steps back to let him pass. “All of the time, actually.”

“That’s the nature of a scientist for you.” Stein gives her a salute as he exits the office, file in hand.


	9. Catharsis

### Catharsis

\---

**Noun; the act of releasing, and thereby providing relief from, strong or repressed emotions**

**\---**

**October**

**\---**

Maka jerks away in a cold sweat, heart racing and strands of hair clinging to the side of her face. Tendrils of her dream clings to her mind, furrow themselves in her muscles and turn her body rigid as she stares up at the ceiling, gasping for air that doesn’t reach her lungs.

 _Calmcalmcalm,_ she thinks, forcing her arms and legs to relax one by one. She lets the rest of her body go limp, sucks in a breath and holds it until her heart is no longer pounding in her ears.

Breathes out and repeats twice more. _Calm calm calm._

When her vision is no longer a swaying, spinning mess of shadows, Maka rolls on her side, pulls out her ear plugs and soaks in the small, comforting details of her room. Greying light poking through her blinds softens the darkness, washing her dresser and bookcases in a hazy glow.

Composed, she gingerly moves towards the other thoughts in her mind. The memory of her dream is the freshest and the sharpest, though it is beginning to fade. She had been pulled underwater by the rotting corpse again. It’s not an uncommon dream, popping in at least once a week.

However, unlike the other times, Maka hadn’t resurfaced. She avoids thinking about what the corpse had done to her but she supposes dying is what woke her up and set her off. It’s easy enough to rationalize but she squirms with an odd impatience.

She sits up and stares blearily around and at herself, trying to figure out what else is wrong. It’s not until her gaze falls to her lap where her hands are twisting and untwisting that she realizes her impatience is because she is waiting.

A mix of horror and irritation rises up in her chest; Maka rips away her blankets and leaps from her bed. Had her dream been bad enough to get Soul’s attention?

Marching to her dresser, she resolutely keeps herself from thinking the follow-up question. She jams the button on her phone with a little too much vigor-it’s too early to begin the day but not too early to be awake, and that’s enough for Maka, who needs to move to chase the unwelcome thoughts from her mind.

She digs in her drawers for five minutes before realizing it’s fall and everything in her dresser is meant for spring and summer. Grinding her teeth, Maka shoves the drawer back in place and tramps to her closet.

After flipping through her clothes twice, she sighs. There is no outfit she can decide on and the squirming feeling is still crawling down her back. Maka leans against the doorway of the closet, not noticing how she places her right hand against her face as she goes from contemplating outfits to staring at her clothes without seeing.

Her declaration in the bog had left Soul reeling; denial had been the first thing out of his mouth, although he quickly moved onto anger and bargaining. Those had taken longer to extinguish but, as she knew well, silence kills even the stubbornest of things, and while it took over a month and the rest of her patience, eventually Soul fell silent as well.

She is still not sure which emotion she felt first the day she woke up to an empty room: relief or disappointment.

Since then, Soul stays out of sight. He trails Maka invisibly, leaves her to sort out her nightmares, allows nothing of his to reach her through her hand. There had been one night in August when the coldness had seared through her like a burn, but it had faded as soon as she sat up.

All of it is exactly what Maka wants and she has never been more miserable.

The bite of her fingernails digging in her cheek brings Maka back to the present. She drops her hand, squares her shoulders and returns to searching through her closet. There is a new pain in being the one to let go first, hovering somewhere between guilt and regret, and it stuck in her skin like broken glass.

She pulls out pants and a shirt, hands wrapped a touch too tightly around them as she steps back. But she had made a decision and it would hurt less in time.

Maka repeats this to herself as she heads to her bathroom until it feels halfway true.

**\---**

Through the phone screen, Tsubaki looks up at Maka and Black Star. “Anything new happen lately?”

“Not since you asked us the same question two days ago.” Black Star takes a swig from his milk carton and raises it high above his head, aiming it at a couple passing freshmen before he notices Maka’s pointed glare.

He rolls his eyes and lowers his hand. “I’m not that much of an asshole.”

“Could have fooled me.” Tsubaki speaks before Maka can retort.

The spikes of Black Star’s hair, freshly dyed purple and done up in his attempt at a mohawk, waver as he puts a hand to his chest and puts the week he spent in theater before being kicked out to good use. “I expect this kind of betrayal from Maka-”

“Excuse me?”

“But never from you.” He gestures to the screen. “College changed you.”

“College drained me,” Tsubaki says through a yawn. “Physically, financially and, once I fail this midterm in an hour, emotionally as well.”

Black Star frowns. “How could you have a midterm if classes started three weeks ago?”

“That’s the quarter system for you.”

Maka leans closer so she can see Tsubaki more clearly. Even through the poor video quality, her exhaustion is obvious. “Are you sleeping enough?”

Tsubaki hesitates. “I’m sleeping the average for a freshman.”

“So not at all.”

“Not _all_ the time, at least,” Tsubaki hedges. She changes the subject before Maka or Black Star can comment. “So about Halloween this weekend,” she says, sweeping her hair behind her shoulder. “I know I said I’d come down but one of my professors needs help in her lab and this could get me into research.”

She says the last sentence guiltily and without looking directly at either of them. Maka opens her mouth but Black Star answers faster than her.

“Is this the professor with all the fish?”

“More than just fish but yes,” Tsubaki answers. “Her lab just opened up a spot for an assistant too.”

“Well, you’d better get it,” he says. “And at least you won’t be picking up rat crap all weekend.”

Tsubaki glances to Maka, who smiles, before smiling herself. “Thank you for understanding.”

Black Star waves a hand. “I wanted to go house jumping anyways.”

“Oh, I had forgotten about that, Halloween is always so fun,” Tsubaki says eagerly. Abruptly, her enthusiasm fades and she looks back at Maka.

“I think I’m going to stay in,” she says quickly before Tsubaki can say anything. “There’s a movie marathon with my name on it.”

“Absolutely boring,” Black Star declares. “You’d have more fun if you came house jumping.”

“We have very different definitions of fun.” Maka gives him a wide smile. “Because house jumping sounds sleep-inducing to me.”

“What matters is you both enjoy yourselves,” Tsubaki intercedes, maternal nature temporarily rising above the sleep deprived college student she has become. She looks at Black Star. “Junior year better win.”

He scoffs. “You say that like it’s a question.”

She laughs and then glances at something off-screen. “I think I’m going to take a nap before my midterm,” Tsubaki says. “Lunch is almost over for you too, right?”

“Go rest,” Maka answers immediately while Black Star chimes in, “Kick that midterm’s butt!”

“All right, all right.” Tsubaki gives them a weary smile. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

The screen goes black as the call ends and Black Star picks up his phone from where he perched it against his backpack. Maka watches as he stares at the screen for a moment before shoving the phone in his pocket.

Black Star misses Tsubaki more than Maka can ever get him to admit; he’s stubborn and threw himself into nearly every club at the beginning of the year, though the only ones that have stuck so far are wrestling and engineering. He claimed it was to show he was capable of everything but Maka knows how much time he spent with Tsubaki after school.

“You can stop examining me.” Black Star keeps his eyes focused on his milk carton. He had it on the edge of the table and is pushing it in tiny increments, pausing each time and waiting as it wobbles dangerously back and forth.

“You’re going to get milk all over you.”

“That’s only if it falls,” he rejoins.

“Hey, Maka.”

She looks up to see Hiro in front of her, pudding cup in hand. There is a nervous expression on his face that she doesn’t quite understand.

“Hi, Hiro,” she says while Black Star gives a small wave of his hand, still concentrated on the milk carton. Maka pauses when he doesn’t immediately continue on his way. “How are you?”

“Good,” he answers. “How are things?”

“Good,” she replies automatically before realizing her answer is the same as his. She gestures vaguely at Black Star. “Conducting a science experiment.”

He smiles, fingers tapping against the pudding container. “I see.”

“I call it ‘misguided fool thinks he can beat gravity.’”

“I’m winning so far,” Black Star says while Hiro laughs a little too loudly, prompting a perplexed look from Maka.

“Well,” she says awkwardly after Hiro’s laughter fades, “I’ll let you get back to your pudding.”

She starts to turn but Hiro speaks again. “Wait.”

Maka glances back up at him-she has no idea why Hiro is acting so strangely since they’ve always been friendly. “Yes?”

“I-well,” Hiro sucks in a breath. “Wouldyouwannagooutfriday?”

She blinks. “What?”

“He asked you out,” Black Star crows loudly, paying no attention as the milk carton tips over and spills all over the floor. “He just asked you out!”

Maka is suddenly aware of how loud Black Star can be by the many eyes she feels on her from their side of the cafeteria. She looks back at Hiro, who appears to be wishing for the ground to swallow him whole.

She can relate to the feeling keenly.

“I-” Maka opens her mouth and closes it. “Okay.”

The pained expression on Hiro’s face disappears, his eyes widening. “Really?”

Her unwillingness will show too much if she talks so Maka nods.

“Great,” Hiro says enthusiastically. He grabs her hand and she’s too surprised to pull back though her skin instantly begins to crawl and tingle at his touch. “When do you wa-”

The pudding cup in Hiro’s hands explodes. Maka sees the flash of shock on his face before vanilla pudding covers both his face and shirt in a gooey mess.

She jumps to her feet while Black Star and half of the cafeteria erupt with laughter. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Hiro backpedals away. “I’m going to go clean myself off but I’ll call you later!”

He bolts away before Maka can say anything else; she turns back around slowly to Black Star, who is still chortling with laughter.

“So,” he says when he is halfway composed, “You and pudding boy?”

Maka doesn’t hesitate as she punches Black Star squarely in the shoulder. “Next time it’ll hurt more.”

He is unfazed. “How are you going to break the news to your dad?”

Instead of answering him, Maka stands back up again, gathering her backpack. “I’m going to go wash up before class.”

Black Star waves with one hand while the other digs out his headphones from his backpack. “Hoping to see your new boyfriend that quickly again?”

This time his other shoulder receives her punch.

The bathroom is empty when Maka enters; she hoists her backpack onto the counter and studies herself in the mirror. Despite being so close to Hiro, no pudding had gotten on her. Drumming her fingers against the counter, Maka nearly opens her mouth to speak several times before she sighs in frustration, burying her face in her hands.

She shouldn’t be amused, Maka tells herself sternly. She should be angry and on some distant level, Maka supposes that she is, although it’s mostly obligatory because she really hadn’t wanted Hiro to hold her hand.

In the few seconds that he had touched her, she’d found she completely disliked the way his skin rubbed against hers, clammy and foreign; it was unlike when Spirit pulled her in for an unexpected bear hug or when she sat squished between Tsubaki and Black Star.

She’d liked it much better when her hand was held by-

Maka squashes the thought before she can finish it, buries it somewhere that she will absolutely not think about it and flicks the sink faucet on, jamming her hands in the stream of freezing water and pulling them away when they start turning red.

As she dries her hand off, Maka speaks. “It wasn’t funny,” she says. Her heart hammers in her chest and she knows she shouldn’t be talking but her self-control is spent for the day. “I don’t know why you did it.”

There is no reply and after a minute of continuing to towel off her very dry hands, she gives up. Internally, Maka rails at herself as she leaves for class-he isn’t the kind of person to come into girls’ bathrooms.

It isn’t like she expected an answer anyways.

**\---**

Maka’s fingers begin to fidget when she hears Spirit walk through the front door, but she forces them to still. “Hi, Papa.”

He sniffs as he walks through the kitchen. “Is that lasagna?”

“Yep,” she says brightly. Maka isn’t particularly nervous about Spirit’s reaction-she has long grown used to his theatrics. However, breaking the news to him and dealing with the subsequent panic and denial is something she intensely does not look forward to doing and anything she can do to make it easier, she will, including digging up her grandma’s old lasagna recipe and spending hours in the kitchen deciphering faded cursive writing.

Sheepishly, Spirit holds up the bag in his hands. “I picked something up from the diner for us.”

“Oh.” She falters before offering, “We can always try the lasagna tomorrow.”

“No, no.” Her father shakes his head vigorously, eyes brimming with pride. “Your grandma would be so proud to see you carrying on the family tradition, I want to see how it turned out while it’s fresh.”

There isn’t much she can argue against that so Maka serves the lasagna while Spirit puts away the bag of diner food in the refrigerator and sets the table. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches Spirit as he takes the first bite, breathing out a sigh of relief when he exclaims in genuine praise.

Maka waits until they’re nearly done with dinner to make her move. Tapping her nails against her glass, she starts off cautiously. “Papa?”

He hums, the last of his lasagna poised on his fork. “Yes?”

Taking a deep breath, she plunges forward. “I got asked out on a date.” She meets his eyes, bracing herself. “I’m going out on a date.”

The classic wailing and knee-jerk reaction of her father does not come. Instead, Spirit stares at her, apparently stunned into silence with his face frozen in the same expression he had before Maka made her announcement.

Real nervousness begins to gnarl Maka’s stomach the longer Spirit goes without talking. She clears her throat. “Papa?”

The sound of her voice appears to bring him back to life, although he still stares at her with a dazed expression.

“A date?” he finally asks.

“Yes.”

The lasagna on his fork falls back on Spirit’s plate with a soft plop. He pays it no attention. “A date,” he murmurs to his table mat. He looks back up at her. “You don’t like dates.”

She’s beginning to wonder if she should have brought a dictionary with her. “Not the edible ones, no.”

Some of the panic Maka was expecting injects itself into Spirit’s voice. “And the non-edible ones?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” she answers. “Possibly.” This conversation is playing out much differently than she expected and Maka isn’t sure yet if it’s a good or bad thing. At least, Spirit isn’t in hysterics yet. “I’ll find out soon.”

“Soon?” Spirit’s voice rises in pitch and he looks behind himself as if her date is about to break down the door. “How soon?”

“This Friday.”

“Three days,” Spirit mutters the words with the air of a condemned prisoner, a hand tugging out the ponytail he wears for work.

“That’s right,” she confirms.

“And who is this person?” he demands. “It doesn’t matter who they are, they still need to come and see me-”

“It’s Hiro,” Maka interrupts. “And we already talked, he’s going to pick me up so you can meet him then.”

“The boy who was convinced he was King Arthur and got lost in the woods looking for Excalibur?”

She is patient. “He was seven, Papa.”

“It’s still a strange thing to do,” he insists with too much urgency. His face lights up with another thought. “Why haven’t you talked about him before?”

“We’ve only started talking more recently,” she answers after a moment of hesitation, leaving out that ‘recently’ meant this afternoon. “We’re going on a date to see how we get along.”

Spirit frowns. When he speaks, his voice is surprisingly calm. “Are you sure you want to go out with him?”

Her answer sticks in her throat and Maka falls silent, aware of the presence she has been determinedly ignoring since she got home from school.

“Maka?”

“Yes,” she says. “I do.”

**\---**

Right before she’s about to go to bed, Maka opens her window and sticks her head out. The moon is bright tonight, illuminating everything, and allows her to clearly see that the roof is vacant. She still speaks. “I want to talk to you.”

Stepping back, Maka closes the window and dawdles in the middle of her room, unsure of how long she should wait. “I’m not going to bed until we talk,” she adds.

Immediately, she feels ridiculous and nearly heads to bed then and there. If she had been in his shoes, she would have let him wait until he fell asleep standing up.

“What do you want?”

Maka spins around and feels her mouth drop open.

All the brown of Soul’s hair is gone, replaced by the silvery white she spied so many months ago. His eyes are a vibrant, burning, scarlet, though it’s the expression in them that makes her face heat.

But it’s the translucence of his body that shocks her; Soul had always looked more solid than transparent, but now his body fades and vacillates in the light. If he had been alive, Maka would have thought he looked gaunt and half-dead. However, given all the changes, he looks much worse than dead.

“I know what I look like,” he says to her unasked question.

Her mouth snaps closed and she crosses her arms. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“It was written all over your face.” Soul drifts to the ceiling. His voice is devoid of the ease he usually speaks to her with and he doesn’t meet Maka’s eyes.

One part of Maka, the reasonable part, asks her exactly what she expected when she asked to talk to Soul; the other part, the larger part, bristles from the pain his reaction inflicts.

“A bit like the pudding all over Hiro’s face,” she hisses.

“Who?”

“You know exactly who.” She jabs a finger at him. “Why did you do that to him?”

“I didn’t do it,” he insists. “It’s not my fault he squeezed his pudding while he was gushing all over you.”

Maka’s face burns. “Shut up.”

“I’m only saying what I saw.”

She’s about to make her retort when she sees what he’s doing. Maka narrows her eyes. “Stop distracting me,” she says. “If it was an accident, then why did none get on me?”

He shrugs. “Luck?”

When she only continues to glare at him, Soul sighs. “I don’t know what happened,” he admits, finally meeting her eyes. “But I do know I didn’t mean it.”

Maka stares at him for another moment before she looks away. “I believe you.”

“What an honor.” Sarcasm layers over the previous honesty and openness in his voice. “Am I dismissed now?” he asks. “I thought we weren’t supposed to talk.”

Several thoughts and emotions try to claw their way to Maka’s throat but she crushes each and every one. “I just wanted to make it clear that whatever happened today doesn’t happen again.”

Soul lets out a derisive snort. “Trust me,” he says, beginning to fade. “Your message was heard loud and clear.”

**\---**

Friday comes much more quickly than Maka would like.

Though getting the date over with might be a good thing, she figures as she drives to school, her truck’s new engine a low hum in the silence of the cab. Hiro has inserted himself soundly in Maka’s life during the past three days-everywhere she goes, he is always there and she’s not sure how much more she can take. Aside from joining her and Black Star for lunch, Hiro also walks with Maka to her classroom, even when their classes are nowhere near each other, and accompanies her to her truck after school.

From what she can tell from the past days, there is nothing she and Hiro have in common. The worst thing is that their personalities chafe-where Maka had thought of Hiro as a friendly acquaintance at the beginning of the week, she is now sorely tempted to hide whenever she sees him. What she badly desires is to cancel the date, but it’s too late now, and every time she’d opened her mouth to do it earlier in the week, she’d thought of the hopeful expression Hiro had when he asked her out and closed her mouth again.

It doesn’t help that it’s October 30; too much is bound up in Halloween for the day before to make her anything but a bundle of frayed nerves and irritable impatience, but she vaguely hopes the date will be at least halfway enjoyable.

Increasing dread in Maka’s gut makes her feel otherwise, but she firmly ignores it and hopes her classes will be enough to take up the space in her head for the day.

Her luck continues to be absent, however; all of her teachers either know or have a good idea about the house jumping tradition and make no attempt to get the attention of students whose minds are clearly elsewhere, giving free rein to the class. It leaves Maka alone to her thoughts and by the time she gets to lunch, her mood has sunk from bad to worse to awful.

Hiro notices, as he does with everything concerning her. It’d be touching if he knew when to stop pushing and give her space.

Like now.

“You haven’t touched your food,” he says from across the lunch table, leaning forward. “Are you feeling sick?”

“No, I feel fine.” Maka straightens, pulling her hands just out of reach. “Just tired.”

Hiro looks at her thoughtfully. “You do have more shadows under your eyes than usual.”

Black Star looks up from his phone incredulously. “Dude, you’re not supposed to agree with someone when they say they’re tired.”

“Really? I’m sorry, I didn’t know!” He claps a hand over his mouth. ”I’ll go get you an energy drink to make up for it.”

Over Maka’s protests, he rises and flees in the direction of the vending machines.

Black Star stops her from going after him. “Let him go, I need the energy drink,” he says. “Plus, he’s out of your hair.”

Maka throws him a glare but his last point is something she can’t deny nor resist. She sits back down, covers her face in her hands and groans loudly.

“You should just tell him you don’t want to go out with him,” Black Star comments. “It’d make your life a lot easier.”

“But the date is today.” She keeps her face in her hands. “That would be rude.”

“Better honest than suffering in a movie theater for two hours.”

She concedes the point with a smaller groan. “I just can’t say it.” Raising her head, Maka says, “I’ll tell him afterwards.”

“It’s up to you.” Black Star shrugs. “If it were me, I’d get your dad to throw him in jail or something.”

Despite herself, she laughs, mood lifting slightly, and starts to pick at her lunch.

_“Maka.”_

At the sound of her name, she turns, already thanking Hiro for the drink.

No one stands behind her.

Maka’s throat closes, memories from last Halloween washing over her mind.

Black Star glances at Maka, still frozen in place. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” She speaks too quickly, too loudly. She forces calm into her words. “Just thought I heard my name, that’s all.”

“The cafeteria is noisy,” he points out, picking up and popping a grape the precise color of his hair in his mouth. “Lots of things could sound like Maka.”

“True,” she agrees, and in her mind, she tells herself it _is_ true, that there is nothing else it can be.

When Hiro returns with her drink, she accepts it without a protest, slides it to Black Star when Hiro isn’t looking, and listens to Hiro talk until the bell rings for class.

Maka spends the rest of the day looking over her shoulder more often than she would admit.

**\---**

The sun is starting its descent in the sky by the time Maka returns home. On their way to their last class, Hiro had suggested heading to her place after school and she’d scrambled to make up an excuse as to why he couldn’t, holing up in the library until she was sure there was no way he could still be on campus.

Throwing her keys on the kitchen counter, Maka drops her backpack and shrugs off her jacket; she revels in the silence for once, stretching her arms high above her head until her back cracks.

It’s wrong to be so glad that Hiro isn’t with her, Maka’s conscience needles at her as she heads for her room, but she also needs some time to herself and to nap before spending the entire evening alone with Hiro.

She pauses for a moment on the staircase. Well, she wouldn’t be completely alone.

Her face warms when she considers Soul witnessing the slow crash and burn of her and Hiro’s date. Then she reminds herself of their conversation three days ago and how likely it is Soul would be keeping the most distance he could anyway.

Unfortunately, she could not say the same for Hiro. Maka’s toes curl in her shoes as she reaches the top of the stairs. If he tried to kiss her, she was either going to scream or punch him, possibly both.

The knob on her door is oddly warm for the heat being off all day as she enters her room, glancing around for a spare blanket she can use for her nap.

When Maka’s eyes fall on the small box sitting neatly in the middle of her bed, she doesn’t recognize it at first. The box looks like any other box but as Maka approaches her bed, heart lodged in her throat and memories drowning her lungs, she remembers.

(She remembers.)

Her hands are shaking too hard for her to hold onto the box-it slips through her fingers and spills out onto the bed. Eliza’s face smiles up beside Maka’s in her drawing of the two, half hidden by old Monopoly charts and lists of books she could never bring herself to read.

(She remembers too much.)

She is ripping, tearing, broken; the hole inside of her chest is splitting open and her entire body wracks with sobs she keeps trapped in her mouth.

(She remembers they left, why did they leave? She’d only looked, she shouldn’t have looked.)

It takes several attempts to gather everything back in the box; she touches each object like it’s burning and when there is nothing left of her memories on the bed, it is then she speaks, choking out, “Show yourself.”

Her words aren’t loud enough, she knows it likes to hear her terror loud and clear. She spins around, pushing her hair from her eyes. “Show yourself.”

She raises her voice. “Come out.”

Her patience dissolves. “Show yourself,” she screams. “Come out.”

“Maka?”

The voice isn’t the one she expects but she turns to it all the same. Soul is a foot away from her face, eyes wide.

She stares at him. It suddenly makes sense.

Though it hurts more.

“How?” she asks, pointing a trembling finger to the bed.

He follows her gaze to the box, still open. “What is that?”

“No.” She shakes her head at him, stepping away from him. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

“I do not have a single clue what you’re talking about.” He doesn’t follow her but his gaze doesn’t leave hers.

“Did you think it would be funny calling my name at lunch?” she asks. She can’t look back at the box. “I know you hate me now but did you really think I deserved to be reminded of everything?”

“I haven’t spoken a word to you until now, I swear.” Soul takes a short step towards her but stops when she pulls back further. His hands are raised, as if to reach out to her. “I don’t hate you, I never have.”

Her jaw works as her vision goes blurry, though no tears escape. He’s never lied to her before.

“Then how?” Maka whispers. “How did this happen?”

“I don’t know,” Soul says after a beat. “But would you explain it to me?”

For a long time, Maka is silent. Then she moves closer in the slightest of movements, opening her mouth. “I-”

“I’m home early,” comes Spirit’s voice from downstairs. “Wouldn’t want to miss the big date!”

The moment is broken; Maka remembers her decision and glances at Soul. “I have to go.”

Quickly, she closes the box and scoops it up to shove it high up on a shelf. This time she will burn it.

Soul doesn’t speak or move as she puts the box away, watching her as she pulls the closet door closed and heads for the hallway.

At the doorway, Maka glances back.

He’s still there.

An emotion she can’t quite identify blooms in her heart.

Then, giving him a tiny nod of her head, she turns around and goes downstairs.

**\---**

“Thank you so much for taking the time to chat.” Spirit’s smile stretches wider as he trails Hiro and Maka to the door, one hand firmly placed on Maka’s shoulder.

“It was no problem,” Hiro immediately says. Quickly, he tacks on, “Sir.”

Maka wrenches her shoulder from Spirit’s grasp. “It _is_ a problem,” she says, glaring at Spirit. She’d warned him outright that she’d leave right away if he threw a fit when Hiro came but she hadn’t expected this. “We’re going to be late for our movie.”

“What?’ Spirit says, slapping his forehead and clearly not shocked at all. “Why don’t you stay and watch a movie here? I’ve even got popcorn.”

“No, Papa.”

“There’s a showing fifteen minutes past the one we were going to see,” Hiro interjects. “We can still make that one.”

“Perfect,” Maka says brightly while Spirit’s smile finally drops off his face.

“Your curfew is still eleven,” he says flatly.

“I _know,_ ” Maka says with an exhausted patience. She swings open the door and steps outside. “Good bye, Papa.”

Spirit continues to shout warnings and reminders as Hiro’s used Honda moves down the driveway.

Maka’s shoulders sag as they turn onto the road. “I am so sorry.”

“I didn’t really expect less from the police chief,” Hiro says. “It’s a win he let me go out with you at all.”

There are too many things wrong with his last sentence for Maka to address at once. Instead, she merely says, “Win?”

Hiro nods enthusiastically before he glances at her in horror. “I don’t mean it that way,” he says rapidly. “I just meant that everyone knows how protective your dad is.”

“And yet, I can still make my own decisions.”

“Exactly,” Hiro says. “You get what I mean.”

Maka does not but she decides to move on.

The rest of the car ride is full of awkward silence and stilted conversation. Maka has always ensured that they were never alone and now that there are no distractors, it’s painfully clear how little they share.

Maka hopes it’s enough for Hiro to change his mind but he appears determined to make the two of them work, consistently starting up the conversation again every time it fizzles out. She nearly leaps from the car when they get to the movie theater at the opposite end of Orcus Hollow.

“I was going to get that for you,” Hiro says from the other side of the car.

She can only bring herself to feel vaguely sorry as she apologizes.

Unease mixed with distaste roils in Maka's stomach every time Hiro’s shoulders graze against hers as they walk to the ticket line. The accidental touches only increase when they're in line. He’s building up to holding her hand and sure enough, she feels his fingers brush against her when they reach the front of the line.

Clasping her hands together in front of her quickly, Maka gives Hiro a smile that she is certain mimics Spirit from earlier. “I should let my papa know we made it on time.”

She walks away before he can say anything, leaving him to buy the tickets. Standing in the lobby of the theater, she taps out a message to her father and sends it but doesn’t move to go back to Hiro.

Maka stares up at the giant screen flashing popcorn advertisements above the concession stand. Is how she felt when Hiro touched her the same way Soul felt when she touched him?

Blinking in confusion, she gives herself a hard internal shake, chasing out the question from her head. It’s only because of their exchange that the thought popped up at all, she tells herself sternly.

“I thought you would have gotten the popcorn by now.” Hiro’s voice comes from behind her though she doesn't turn. “Considering how long you were gone.”

He frowns when he sees her face. “I'm jo-”

“Yes, I know what you mean,” Maka says, holding back her eye roll.

Hiro beams at her. “Wonderful.”

He doesn't try anything as they get their popcorn nor as they walk into their theater and find their seats. There's not too many people Maka spies sitting in the rows of seats, much to her disappointment, and Hiro insists on having a row all to themselves, which only increases the dread coiling in her stomach.

She sits primly in her seat, back ironed straight and arm closest to Hiro tucked in tightly to her side, giving short replies to his questions. Anyone who isn't Hiro would have gotten the message ages ago but he spends the trailers trying to make conversation.

When the movie begins to play, Hiro falls silent and after a few minutes, Maka leans back into her seat but stays tense. She watches the screen without absorbing anything; it had been a mistake to let her fear of hurting Hiro’s feelings guilt her into going on this date and it isn’t one she’s going to make again. They're almost halfway through the movie when she feels something tap against her shoulder.

She jumps, looking at Hiro in alarm as he retracts his arm from around her. “What are you doing?”

Hiro’s shock at her reaction is evident and he blinks a few times before muttering, “Nothing.”

“Good.” The word slips out on accident; instantly, Maka sees its effects reverberate on his face before his expression closes. However, guilt pricks only weakly at her as she settles back in her seat.

Hiro sulks for the rest of the movie; Maka can hardly bring herself to care.

He keeps his distance as they walk out of the theater, which she counts as another victory. When they get to the car, Hiro turns to her. “You don't like me.”

Maka hesitates-she does feel bad for him on some level. “No,” she replies. “But-”

Her apology is cut off by Hiro’s angry voice. “But you could if you tried.”

Any sympathy for Hiro evaporates. “No, I can't,” she snaps. “And even if I could, I wouldn't want to try.”

She catches a glimpse of Hiro’s determination before he acts and that is what allows her fist to reach up and connect with his cheek just as he tries to kiss her.

Hiro staggers back and doubles over while Maka shakes out her hand.

Glaring up at her, Hiro spits, “You don't know what you're missing.”

“I do,” Maka informs him calmly, though on the inside, she is shaking with fury. “And I don't need it.”

The look on his face hardens. “Then you don't need a ride home either.”

He stomps to his car and Maka lets him, knowing he is waiting for her to beg not to leave. She gives a little wave as he drives away, waiting until he is out of sight to let out a small scream.

“What an asshole.”

She whirls around.

Soul is staring in the direction that Hiro drove off, a look of disgust on his face. “He deserved it.”

Her hands clench in embarrassment. “You saw?”

“Not all of it, just the end,” he replies. “I can imagine it wasn’t much better inside.”

“It wasn’t.” Maka walks away though to where she has no idea, all she knows is she doesn’t want to go home. “But it’s over now.”

“Aren’t you going to call your dad?” Soul doesn’t disappear for some reason, drifting alongside Maka. “You’re not going to try to walk home, are you?”

“I don’t want to go home yet, I’ll call him in a while.” She gives him a sidelong glance-she guesses the anger boiling in her veins is reflected in his hand and the reason he lingers so she takes a deep breath and tries to calm herself. “Think I might head to Sid’s diner first.”

He nods. “Food is always a solid plan.”

“Especially pancakes.” Maka puts a hand to her stomach and feels it rumble loudly. She’d hardly touched her popcorn during the movie and the plan had been to eat dinner after the movie so she hasn’t eaten since early afternoon. “Bacon and eggs, too.”

“Now you’re making me hungry.”

“I’ll eat an extra portion in your honor,” Maka says as they turn down the street to an empty side street leading to a children’s park.

“How incredibly thoughtful of you,” he says, making a face. “I really miss food,” Soul adds after a beat.

“Do you remember what food tastes like?” she asks curiously, the bright lights of the park flooding over them. There is a quicker way to get to the diner than going through the park, but it involves darkened alleys and unlit streets. The park is well-lit and open and she’ll take the longer walk over risking running into poltergeists any day.

“I don’t think so.” Soul thinks, gaze floating upward. “If I concentrate on a scent, it’s almost like I can taste it,” he says. “But it’s not the same.”

“Oh.” There’s not much she can say to that and even less to everything underlying his words. “I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t hurt or anything.” He shrugs. “I just miss it.”

Maka’s mind sinks underneath the weight of her thoughts as they fall into silence. The fear of being alone has been carved in her heart by everyone who has left, by those who have crushed her trust into dust. It is for that reason she made herself unreachable to her father for years, to Black Star and Tsubaki after her accident, and to Soul now.

And that has made her exactly what she doesn’t want to be; Maka looks up to the sky where the stars are beginning to wink into being and then over to Soul. But does it have to be that way?

Soul takes notice of her looking at him. “Are you okay?”

“I used to have ghosts that lived with me when I was little,” Maka says finally. The confession is like dragging sandpaper over exposed nerve endings but she keeps talking, although she can’t bring herself to look directly at Soul. “We never talked too much about food though.”

The light of the street lamp they’re passing under extinguishes with an abrupt hiss, cutting off Soul’s reply.

Around her neck wraps a familiar voice. _“Maka.”_

A breathy scream is all that escapes from her mouth, throat constricting as the rest of the lights around the park go out, dousing them in darkness.

She backpedals away and claps her hand over her mouth, head swerving left and right. The rest of the world has been snuffed out and if it weren’t for the moon overhead, she’d be in complete darkness.

Soul’s voice sounds in the dark. She catches a glint of silver not too far away from her. “Maka, what’s happening?”

She takes a few steps towards him and then she stops, rasping, “Go.”

“What?”

“Get out.” She speaks more loudly. The presence of the demon swells and looms heavily in the air, pressing itself on her skin. It’s not something she can outrun like last time. “Leave.”

Soul moves in the direction of her voice. “I’m not going until you tell me what’s happening!”

Something winds around her ankle and Maka looks down to see the darkness is moving, has bound itself into tendrils that throb with something alive. She has no time to even inhale when the darkness tightens its hold and knocks her off-balance.

Maka’s chin connects with the ground as she lands in front of a swingset; razor pain shoots up into her temples and threatens to split her head open while the taste of copper stings in her mouth. She scrabbles on her hands and knees across the ground, wood chips digging in her palms and shins as the demon releases its grip on her.

It’s playing with her, she knows it, but still Maka crawls away as fast as she can and forces herself to her feet when her hands meet blacktop.

She staggers forward only a few steps before her legs give out. She tries to get up one, two, three times and everytime she slumps back to the ground. Her willpower drains out of her body quietly and Maka stares down at the ground.

 _It is so tiring,_ she thinks as she feels the darkness ripple around her, fear nothing more than a feeble flutter in her hands. _Living is so tiring._

Dimly, Maka becomes aware of a burning sensation in her palm and she frowns-it exists for a reason but exhaustion clouds the reason behind it.

The heat in her hand wakes Maka up to more than the darkness creeping slowly to her and she slowly registers a voice beyond her that is yelling her name over and over. It’s too frantic, too desperate to belong to the demon.

Maka lifts her head and remembers she is not alone.

“Soul,” she whispers. She pushes herself to her feet. “Soul!”

“Here!” He’s somewhere to her right and she lurches forward, reaching out in the dark.

Her balance is fragile; she skids to a stop and rocks on her feet. The demon is hunting her again, presence bearing down on her back. “Where?”

Soul’s voice rings out closer this time and she catches a flash of white. “Here!”

She springs towards him, hand outstretched even though it will reach nothing. Something sweeps through her body, a crushing feeling consumes her from the inside out and suddenly Maka is not alone in her mind anymore.

Her vision swims with hazy figures that are simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar in a mansion that is both home and a prison before she feels the phantom pain of a knife breaking open her chest.

 _What’s going on?_ Soul’s voice comes from the other side of her mind.

Her (their?) lips open. “I don’t know.”

Maka’s arm lifts by itself, moving back and forth.

_This is weird._

“I know.”

Her fingers wiggle back and forth.

_This is really weird._

She feels the panic Soul is trying to suppress on his side. “I know.”

Maka tries to move their head, meeting resistance until Soul realizes what she’s trying to do. The world is still cloaked in darkness but she can see much more clearly now. Their eyes trail across the park and fix on the large shadow perched on top of a swing set.

Revulsion twists in their stomach and in their mind, Maka feels Soul recoil harshly from the sight of the demon. It looks less like the demons of the horror movies Maka grew up with and more like an overgrown mosquito, its pointed nose nearly the length of its body.

The demon speaks for the first time since it attacked. Its eyes glow crimson, dancing with malice. “This is an inconvenience,” it says. It levels its nose at them. “But I’m always up for a challenge.”

They skirt and jump to one side as the demon shoots at them; in her side of their head, Maka feels a wave of surprise as they leap higher in the air than she ever has on her own. They stumble slightly as they land, both of them scrambling to regain their balance.

The demon makes a hairpin turn as they right themselves, launching itself at them again. Soul moves more quickly than her, wrenching them out of the way.

They run much more quickly than Maka does on her own too, bolting for a jungle gym across the park. _How do you kill a demon?_

Maka grits their teeth, trying to keep her side of their focus. “Does it look like I’ve done this before?”

They crouch behind the jungle gym, chest heaving. _Do you want an honest answer?_

When their breathing returns to normal and the demon still hasn’t reappeared, they peek out and look left and right.

“I don’t see anything.”

_Surprisingly, neither do I._

After another moment of deliberation, they ease out of their hiding place and slide their gaze to the edge of the park. The world is still frozen in darkness but maybe if they make it out of the park, it’ll be different.

That is Maka’s hope anyways.

Soul chimes in. _Not much else we can do._

They’re backing away from the jungle gym when something shifts above them.

Blood red eyes stare greedily down at them. “I expected more of a fight than this,” the demon says before hurtling down at them.

Their hands lash out in reflex and in a stroke of luck, their fingers wrap around its nose, keeping the point of the demon’s nose from drilling into their neck.

Something from Maka’s side of their link roars to life in her blood as soon as they touch the demon - it feels like fire but flows like water from her into it. The air fills with its yells as the demon thrashes in their grip, fighting to break free, but Maka holds on firmly, instinct screaming at her not to let go.

Blinding light blazes in Maka’s vision from nowhere, devouring everything else. It breaks Maka’s hold and she reels backwards. Her hands catch nothing but air as she reaches out for Soul but she can’t feel him in her mind anymore.

She can’t feel him anywhere.

The light smothers itself out; Maka slips in darkness, her thoughts noiselessly sinking into nothing.

**\---**

The stars have returned when Maka opens her eyes, as has the rest of the world. She is lying on the ground and when she tries to move, her body rebels. Pinpricks of splinters send tiny needles of pain up her palms and down her knees, every inch of her _aches_ and her eyes itch with a nearly overwhelming fatigue.

She breathes in deeply and exhales slowly; memories from before she lost consciousness return to her in jagged fragments and waves of emotion, moving from when Hiro picked her up to when the demon-

Maka’s breath hitches in her throat, the weariness in her bones evaporating. She scrambles up, alone in her body, and looks all around her, seeing everything but who she needs to see. Her voice is foreign on her lips. “Soul?”

Nothing.

She tries again, raising her voice. “Soul?”

Silence, always silence.

Maka’s hands move to press against the sides of her head as she stares ahead, seeing nothing. Something is fighting within the hole in her chest to break free but she keeps her heart locked and her lips sealed because if she lets it out, she won’t stop until everything buried inside of her pours out and she can’t do that alone.

The world beyond Maka babbles with a million different sounds but her world is too still, too quiet, and in her mind resounds, _This again, this again, this again._

“Right here.” Soul’s face materializes in her vision. “Sorry, I-”

He stops as he looks at her. “Maka?”

She lowers her hands, staring at him in disbelief.

“Maka?” Soul says again. The concern in his face increases when she doesn’t answer. “What’s wrong?”

Maka opens her mouth. Instead of words, a broken sob comes out. She gulps it down, hands clenching into fists.

Soul doesn’t speak, waiting. She knows by his expression that he’ll pretend nothing’s happened, if that’s what she wants.

But the weight of being alone has finally become too much to bear.

“Everything,” Maka whispers. “Everything.”

The hole in her chest shifts and dissolves.

With a small sigh, Maka finally begins to cry.


	10. Gloaming

###  Gloaming

\---

**Noun;** **Defined as twilight and dusk,** **_gloaming_ ** **symbolizes the day’s end, the glittery, transient echo when time and nature meet.**

**\---**

**Halloween**

**\----**

A throbbing headache tows Maka out of her dream while sunlight prods her into waking. Grumbling, she hoists her blankets over her head and hisses when she feels shooting pain light in her palms.

“Are you awake?”

“No.” She ignores the pain and buries her face in her pillow.

“It sounds like you are.”

She throws back the covers and gives Soul a half-hearted glare. “What do you want?”

A jar of antibiotic cream and a roll of bandages floats up in front of him in silent answer.

Pulling a face, Maka sits up and finds most of the bandages Spirit had decorated her with last night have fallen off. Spirit hadn’t looked convinced by the story that she had gone to the park after Hiro ditched her and made an unwise leap at the peak of her swinging, but he’d been more preoccupied with the cuts and scrapes dotting her body to question her further.

She uncaps the jar and begins to apply it to the cuts that hurt the most while Soul unwraps the bandages. “How did you get these in here?” she asks, glancing at her closed door-Soul’s dubious control over his telepathy hasn’t evolved enough yet to twist open doorknobs.

“Your father left them on your dresser.” A lone bandage floats to her and she takes it.

“And where is he now?”

“He got a call and went out a while ago,” Soul answers. “Left a note saying he’d be back for dinner.”

“So long as he’s not trying to hunt down Hiro,” Maka mutters. She didn’t need to be labeled as the daughter of  _ that _ cop just yet.

Soul’s voice is serious. “Actually, I think that’s was the call was about.”

She looks up in alarm and then she sees the expression on his face.

Her pillow sails through him, knocking the roll of bandages out of the air and just underneath the bed. “Hey!”

“Not so funny now,” Maka says evenly, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed and wincing as she flexes her feet. She and Soul reach for the bandages at the same time-Maka beats him to the roll just barely and straightens with a victorious smile. Her gloat dies in her throat as she finds Soul much closer to her than she thought with his outstretched fingers an inch away from hers.

The temptation to close the distance flares as Soul withdraws his hand and drifts to her other side of the bed, gesturing to the pile of bandages next to her. “Those should be enough, right?”

“Right.” Something like disappointment sounds in her chest and Maka returns to placing bandages on her cuts, fingers moving clumsily. The scrapes spanning across her knees and palms don’t hurt much although the peculiar fatigue from last night hasn’t fully dissipated, still heavy in her bones. It had done strange things to her: she vaguely remembers words that couldn’t stop gushing from her mouth as Soul led her home and Maka prays she had kept some sort of filter on whatever she’d said.

Her teeth grit in frustration as her fingers refuse to cooperate and the bandage around her right hand slips off for the third time.

“Need help?”

It is almost embarrassing how quickly she holds out her hand but she is too emotionally spent from yesterday to feel any shame. “Please.”

Maka scoots her pillows out of the way to make more room for Soul before she realizes it’s unnecessary.

Soul snorts as he takes the bandage and begins to wrap it carefully around her palm.  “Is it that easy for you to forget?” 

“I did grow up with ghosts.” The ease of which her words come out feels unnatural but they no longer sting with the bitterness of melancholy. “They felt a lot more alive than some people.”

“Did I tell you anything about them?” she asks after a pause. “From last night?”

“You talked about them a bit.” His eyes flick up to hers. “A lot.”

“Oh.” She wiggles her fingers as Soul finishes wrapping the bandage. “How much did you understand?”

“I got the gist of it.” He floats back slightly, still gazing at her face. “I’m sorry.”

Maka’s throat tightens; tears prick in the corner of her eyes but the hurt that has been suffocating her for the past four years is fragmented and when she inhales, she can feel something more than her pain.

She brushes away the tears tracking down her face. “I miss them.”

“You can cry.” A box of tissues nudges the unbandaged part of her hand as Soul takes up the spot next to her. “It’s okay.”

She accepts the tissues and for a long time, there is no other noise in the room but the sound of Maka’s quiet, broken breathing. She sniffles and hiccups twice as her tears begin to slow, crumpling the tissue in her hand.

“So, the other thing from last night,” she begins once she’s sure she is done crying. “The possession,” she clarifies when Soul doesn’t answer. 

The lax slouch of Soul’s shoulder is replaced by a rigid tension. “I know what you meant.”

“I didn’t think possession would feel so-” Maka searches for the word. “Thrilling.”

Soul blinks, raising his eyebrows. “Thrilling?”

Maka suddenly doubts whether Soul felt the same harmony flowing between them that she had and scrambles for something else to say. “Well, it was a life-or-death situation. For me, at least.”

Soul laughs once at that but it sounds forced. “It was different, that’s for sure.”

“Let’s try it again,” Maka suggests eagerly. She stands up, reaching out for his hand. “All it took was us overlapping ri-”

“No!” Soul nearly flies back through the ceiling.

She jumps in alarm from how fast Soul retreats. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he answers, although his expression says otherwise. Soul peels himself away from the ceiling but he stays out of reach. “I just don’t want to do it.”

“Why not? Imagine all the good we could do,” Maka rejoins. “Imagine if we could clear out all of the poltergeists.”

Soul hovers slightly closer. ““It’s a nice thought but we can’t,” he says. “I can’t.”

Maka frowns. “Why? What do you mean?”

“I felt it.” Soul’s gaze moves everywhere, except to Maka. “Whatever you were doing to that demon,” he says. “And it hurt.” 

“It hurt?”

“Not much,” he adds quickly, eyes meeting hers briefly.

Maka studies at Soul. He is desperately trying to be nonchalant, but his panic makes itself apparent through the chill in her hand.  “It doesn’t mean what you think it means.”

“I didn’t say it meant anything,” he mutters.

“No, but you thought it,” she replies. “You are nothing like that demon,” she says, moving to her closet. “And we’re going to prove it.”

“How?”

She pulls a pair of pants from her closet. “You’ll see.” Turning back to him, Maka asks, “Can you give me some privacy?”

“Oh, right.” He’s still looking anywhere but at her though his voice sounds embarrassed now. “I’ll be in the truck.”

Maka dresses briskly, grabbing a granola bar from the kitchen to soothe her grumbling stomach as she jots a note to Spirit and leaves the house. The wind is sharp and freezing although the sun is shining down; she blows on her hands as she enters the truck, turning the key in the ignition eagerly.

Soul is waiting in the passenger seat. “Now will you tell me?” he asks.

She pulls carefully down the driveway. “Nope.”

“That’s unfair.”

“Think of it as practice in patience.”

The drive to the cemetery is short and Maka hears Soul’s small intake as she turns into the road leading in between the carefully watched over graves.

She looks over at him as she parks and turns off the car. “Do you think you’d know your name if you saw it?”

Soul gives her a once over and she knows he’s checking to see if she’s really okay with this. Then he nods.

“Then we’ll find you,” Maka says simply.

**\---**

Maka squints at the faded name on the headstone, brushing away some of the dirt covering the stone. “Is your name...Johann Eisanburg?”

He snorts. “That is the most unfortunate name I have ever heard of.”

“So it’s yours then.”

“And also nowhere near Soul.”

She wipes the dirt off her hands. “Nicknames don’t have to make sense.”

“Somehow I’m still thinking that’s not me,” he says, rising up. Soul sighs. “How many more do we have to go?”

“This cemetery is filled with over two hundred years’ worth of dead people,” Maka answers, standing as well. “So I’m guessing a lot more.” She stretches and glances at the darkening sky, shaking out the soreness in her legs. “We’ll have to save them for tomorrow though.”

“Fun.” Soul casts a dark look in the direction of the group of ghosts peering at him from beyond a particularly large gravestone. His appearance seems to simultaneously fascinate and terrify the ghosts who dwelled in the cemetery; all of the ghosts had followed Soul at a careful distance initially, paying little attention to Maka, although now the only ghosts who linger are teenagers and small children.

There’s an increase in their hushed babble and a few high-pitched giggles as Soul glares at them before they scatter, disappearing into the air.

A smile twitches on Maka’s lips. “You’re popular.”

“Don’t.”

“You should try talking to them,” she continues as they head back to the truck. “They think you’re cool.”

“They think I’m weird,” he corrects, slipping through the truck to his place in the passenger seat. “They’d run away if I tried talking to them.” He throws away the words as if they mean nothing, but they carry a resignation that stretches farther back than the time they’ve been together.

Maka slides into her seat. “I didn’t run away when I met you.” She gives him a sidelong look as the engine roars to life. “And I think you’re cool occasionally.”

Soul is quiet and then he scoffs. “Only occasionally?”

“You forfeited ‘all the time’ when you woke me up to rant about the Fox and the Hound.”

“It was a sad movie!”

“It was also midnight.”

Soul rolls his eyes but the pensive melancholy on his face is gone. “Let’s play a game,” he says after a moment.

“A game?” Maka scrunches her eyes against the blinding glare of the setting sun. “What kind?”

“The true or false kind.”

The suggestion is strange for Soul but she accepts it without questioning it. “Okay, you start then.”

“You think I’m cool.”

“I just told you that!” She doesn’t need to look at him to feel the smugness radiating off him.

“You can only answer with true or false.”

She purses her lips together to keep the amusement off her face. “Fine, true.”

Soul sounds overly pleased with himself. “Thank you.”

“My turn,” Maka says with a determined air. “You’re the one who put the color with my dad’s white shirts.”

“That was months ago,” he says defensively. “Why does it matter?”

She shakes her head. “True or false answers only, remember?”

“True,” Soul finally admits. “But I had no idea how laundry worked then.”

“I knew it,” Maka declares victoriously, jabbing a finger in his direction. “And you kept on saying it was me.”

“I was trying to help.”

“My dad’s pink shirts thank you.” She glances over at him. “And since you had me confess you’re cool twice, that means I get another question.”

He laughs. “Fine.”

Maka keeps her eyes trained on the road as she speaks. “You’re angry at me for ignoring you.”

Silence descends in the truck. “True and false,” Soul says finally. “I was angry in the beginning,” he continues. “Then, I was confused.” His voice takes on the keen discomfort of someone who never speaks their feelings. “And then I was hurt.”

It parallels too closely for Maka not to make the realization: she had become the one who left instead of the one who was left behind. “I’m sorry,” she says. 

She takes a breath. “I overreacted in the swamp.” She swallows. “I thought I was protecting myself from being left behind again.”

Her gaze slides to Soul. “But I just hurt you.”

“I’m sorry,” she says again.

He is quiet for a long time. “You don’t have to worry about me leaving.”

His words and silent acceptance of her apology makes her throat grow tight. “Okay.”

The grin in his voice is loud. “All right.”

He and Maka go back to their game for the rest of the ride home, keeping their following questions light and teasing, but it’s as Maka parks that a real question crops up in her mind. Instantly, a flush burns across her face and her heartbeat turns into a single unceasing roar. She craves the answer as much as she dreads it, and now that it’s occurred to her, there is no way Maka can’t ask, but still her mouth runs dry and her stomach flips in knots, hands turning clammy.

She is acutely aware of everything as they exit the truck and walk towards the porch, of the dying orange painted across the sky, of the evening air’s crisp taste on her tongue, of the closeness between her hand and Soul’s.

Tension winds in Maka’s muscles and threatens to choke her words but she takes a deep breath and pauses on the porch. It’s something she has to settle or the doubt lying dormant in her mind will come back to life again.

“Last question,” Maka says as she turns to Soul, cutting off whatever he had been in the middle of saying.

Confusion crosses his face and then Soul closes his mouth, looking at her expectantly.

Her breathing is nonexistent, her skin is on fire and her heartbeat pounds in her fingertips but she focuses on the red of Soul’s eyes, softened into burgundy in the fading light, and nothing else.

The words come out with less conviction than she envisioned. “You want to stay.”

Soul’s expression goes blank before filling with an emotion she’s never seen on him.

Something pounces from on top of the porch light. Maka lets out a cry of surprise as it lands on her shoulder and flings her hands up to rip it off when she recognizes the small soft ball of fur squirming furiously in her grip.

Purple paws bat at the air in front of Maka’s face as she adjusts her grasp. “You!” she exclaims. “Where have you been?”

Beyond her, Soul asks, “Who is this?”

“ _ This _ is the infamous cat I’ve been telling you about.” She holds the writhing cat out to him. “Isn’t she lovely?”

The cat is desperate to be free, swiping at Maka’s arms. “And energetic,” she adds.

The longer Soul stares at the cat, the more dumbfounded his expression becomes. After a moment of silence, he lifts a shaking finger, pointing it at the animal. “I know this cat.”

“Really?” Maka frowns. “Have you seen her around the house before?”

“Before that,” Soul chokes out. He looks paler than usual, if that were possible. “This cat was with me the night I died.”

“You remember me!” The cat stops floundering in Maka’s hands and begins to purr. Her golden eyes fix on Soul. “It’s been a long time, ghost boy.”


	11. Morituro

### Morituro

\---

**Adjective; Of someone who is next or destined to die**

**\---**

Maka nearly drops the cat.

The cat yowls, claws digging in her shirt. “Watch it!”

“You’re talking,” Maka says faintly, lifting up the cat to her face.

The cat brightens and her purring grows louder. “You can understand me too!”

Maka meets Soul’s eyes. “She’s talking.”

Soul doesn’t answer; his brows are furrowed and his expression is distant as he concentrates on something she can’t see.

“As any familiar worth her salt does,” says the cat.

Maka doesn’t comprehend anything coming out of the cat’s mouth, not that she ever expected to understand a cat at all.

She decides to start with the basics. “Okay, do you have a name?”

“Of course.” The cat almost looks affronted. “Blair would have been no good to her witch without a name.”

“Witch,” Maka repeats blankly.

Blair finally makes herself at home in her arms. “That’s right.”

“As in the kind who fly on brooms.”

“The witches who could fly never used a broomstick.” Now Blair does look offended. “Though they may have used them for other things, I wouldn’t know.”

A wave of nearly giddy dizziness sweeps through Maka; her reality has never been anything like anyone she knows, but a talking cat calmly informing her of the presence of beings she thought only existed in fairy tales seems to be the final straw for her. She gets no help from Soul, who continues to stare at nothing.

The sensation of her arms growing heavy from holding Blair brings her back to her senses. “Let’s go inside,” she says to Soul. He shows no indication of hearing her but when she holds open the door, he trails in after them with the same focused expression on his face.

Flinging her bag on the kitchen table, Maka tightens her hold on Blair, who struggles to break free again, and heads to her room.

There is a flicker of something in Soul’s eyes as they enter her room. Maka lets the cat leap from her arms after she closes the door; Blair lands lightly on her feet and immediately makes herself comfortable on Maka’s bed.

Maka contemplates for a moment and then she starts, “I’m going to need you to expl-”

A ringing outside of her room interrupts the rest of her sentence. Maka groans when she remembers she left her phone in her bag downstairs, sure it’s Spirit calling to check in for at least the fifth time today.

“Stay here,” she says to the cat, sparing a glance at Soul as she leaves the room. He’s looking more like himself although he continues not to react to her words.

The phone stops ringing just as Maka reaches her bag and she curses under her breath when she digs it out and sees Spirit’s face flashing up from the missed call notification on the screen. She unlocks the phone as it begins to ring again. “Hi, Papa.”

“Where were you?” Worry makes Spirit’s words rapid and tense. “Are you still out?”

Maka holds back her sigh-she’s nearly died twice on Halloween, so Spirit’s anxiety and hourly check-ups on her are understandable, if grating. “No, I was in my room, I left my phone downstairs.”

“I see,” he says, relief palpable. “I just wanted to call to let you know that I’m wrapping up some paperwork and then I’ll be on my way home.”

“All right, I’ll be waiting.”

There’s silence on Spirit’s end. “Well,” he says finally. “I’ll see you in a while.”

“See you soon.” Maka waits until she hears Spirit hang up before lowering the phone from her ear, shoving it in her pocket.

When she returns to her room, it’s to find Soul and Blair at odds; the cat floats in the middle of the air, spitting furiously.

“Admit it,” hisses Soul, lifting the cat higher off the ground  “You got me killed!”

“Blair did no such thing,” she insists. “Put me down!”

“Not until you tell me what you did.”

Maka moves forward from the doorway, pulling Blair from the air and narrowing her eyes at Soul when she meets resistance.

He sighs and lets his hold on Blair drop.

“And you,” Maka addresses the cat, “have quite a lot to explain.”

She settles on the bed and lets go of Blair, who extracts herself from her arms and takes up a place at the other end of the bed. Soul moves to sit between them, closer to Maka than the cat.

“I remember it.” His fingers move restlessly through his hair. “The night I died.”

Maka says nothing but tilts her head to show she is listening.

“It was today,” Soul says, hands dropping. “We were having a party for Halloween and my brother had to convince me to join.”

“I have a brother, his name is Wes,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Maka. “Was.” Sorrow and longing twists Soul’s face in a way that makes him painful to look at. “I don’t think he’s alive anymore.”

Giving his head a shake, Soul shifts away from the bed. “There was something in the air that night.” His eyes go distant. “I don’t know if it was the same demon from yesterday. And then-”

“I met you.” His gaze refocuses on Blair. “You led me into the forest.”

Something like guilt glints in the cat’s eyes. “That part is true,” she concedes. “But you dying was an accident.”

“Quite the accident.” Soul’s voice is suddenly seething. “I missed out on my entire life because you wanted to play hide and seek.”

Blair goes on the defensive. “Giriko already had his sights set on you.” Her tail swishes violently. “No one survives when he does that.”

“Who is Giriko?” Maka interrupts.

“The man who murdered me,” Soul answers.

“He’s a soul collector who lives in the swamp,” adds Blair.

Both Soul and Maka turn to stare at the cat. “What is a soul collector?” she asks.

“Humans that should have died a long time ago but were brought back to life, imbued with magic, and sent back to earth to collect souls for their witch,” says the cat matter-of-factly.

Maka grits her teeth. “And what are witches?”

“Magical beings who were here long before humans.” Blair stretches. “Though they can’t live without them now.”

“Why?”

“Human souls give a lot of power to a witch’s magic,” Blair answers simply. “They’re their energy source now.”

There’s a long silence.

“Disgusting,” Soul mutters.

Blair is unruffled. “To them, it’s like when I hunt mice.”

He scowls. “So if you are on their side, then why are you saying all of this?”

“I never killed any humans, I was created to help my witch and that was what I did,” the cat says matter-of-factly. “But she died a long time ago, when the others left. And then I got left behind.” Her tail gives a dismissive flick. “So Blair is free to do what she wants.”

“I like the humans,” she says, rising up to purr against Maka’s leg. “Especially the ones who leave out fish.”

Reluctantly, Maka reaches out to scratch behind her ears, head spinning with everything she’s heard. The cat had never appeared anything other than normal to her. “What did you mean when you said the others left?”

“I’m not quite sure on that part,” Blair says, continuing to purr. “One day, they were here and when Blair woke up, they were gone. But that’s when they started making soul collectors to gather and send souls to them.”

Maka glances up at Soul. His face is unreadable, eyes fixed on a point in the ceiling.

His voice is barely above a whisper when he speaks. “How do they do it?”

“Ritual magic.”

“And how do they do that?” Maka asks. “Is it all the time?”

“It’s only on Halloween that Giriko does it, I don’t know why, though anyone can see his house then.” The cat shifts uncomfortably. “Usually, soul collectors take a physical piece of the sac-” she sends an abashed look to Soul, “human to bind them from the earth to wherever the witch is. Keeping them incomplete keeps their souls from moving on.”

“Something that binds you,” Maka repeats. Her eyes move to Soul’s shirt, which hide the stab wounds dotting across his chest. _Keeps their souls from moving on._

When she meets Soul’s eyes, she knows he’s wondering the same thing as her.

Something selfish constricts in her heart but she pushes it away, looking back to the cat. “And is Giriko out looking for humans now?”

“He waits until after dark to go out.” Blair stands, done with having her head scratched. “Can Blair leave now?”

From her window, Maka sees the sky fading from orange to purple as the sun sinks below the horizon.

“Last question,” she says. “Do you know Soul’s name?”

Above her, Soul stiffens.

The cat thinks for a moment. “Solan Evans.”

“Well,” Maka says after a pause, looking at Soul. “It _is_ better than Solomon.”

Blair prods her with a paw. “Blair will be leaving now.”

“You will,” Maka promises, getting up from the bed. “After you take us to where Giriko is.”

“What?” the cat whines.

Soul’s voice is flat. “You can’t be serious.”

Maka begins to search her desk drawers for the pepper spray Spirit gave to her when she entered high school, steadfastly ignoring his gaze. “Wouldn’t you want the choice?”

“It doesn’t matter how I feel.” Soul moves in front of Maka, forcing her to look him in the eye. “Your life is more important.”

She scoffs to hide the emotion written on her face and lining the rest of her body. “You heard Blair. He’ll be out; we’ll sneak in and out and no one will know.”

“No.” Soul shakes his head hard and fast. He’s angry, much angrier than he had sounded earlier. “It’s not worth it.”

His words ignite a spark of frustration in Maka and she pushes her face close to his. “You are worth it.”

Her heart flips as she watches the anger drain away from Soul. His eyes trace her face. “If you want me to stay, I will.”

For an instant, the words spring to Maka’s lips, nearly leap from her mouth.

But staying isn’t staying if it’s forced, no matter what Soul’s answer might have been to her question from earlier, and she swallows them back. “No.”

“Maka?” Spirit’s voice sounds from downstairs.

She speaks without breaking eye contact with Soul. “Coming, Papa.”

“I can smell roast chicken.” Blair noses at her ankle. “Bring me back some.”

“I’ll be back after dinner,” Maka says, turning away from Soul. “And then we’re going.”

**\---**

A high and false scream issues from the TV as the heroine watches her love interest seemingly die. It does nothing to alarm Maka the way the slow crawl forward on the clock perched above the TV does. Midnight strikes in less than two hours and here she is, roped into watching old slasher movies.

Out of the corner of her eye, she peeks at Spirit, who is watching the movie and gobbling his popcorn with equal enthusiasm. It still feels surreal to see him when Maka thinks about everything that has happened in the past day and what is coming next.

She sucks in a breath through her nose. That was only if Spirit ever let her leave for more than five minutes-Maka had expected his clinginess at dinner, but upon coercing her into joining his movie marathon, he’s hardly let her leave the couch.

As if reading her thoughts, Spirit nudges her shoulder. “What movie do you want to watch next?”

An idea suddenly strikes Maka. “Actually, I think I’m in need of a bathroom break,” she says. She offers him her nearly untouched popcorn. “Want it?”

When Spirit doesn’t accept the popcorn, she glances over at him-the cheeriness he’s forced since he came home is replaced by a somberness that is more fitting for someone decades older than Spirit.

A mix of guilt and confusion spreads through Maka. “Papa?”

She’s surprised when Spirit takes her hand and gazes at her seriously. “Are you okay?”

Maka knows exactly what he’s alluding to but she refuses to acknowledge it. “I’m fine, Papa.”

His hand tightens around hers, as if to make sure she’s still there. “It’s okay if you aren’t,” he says. “A lot of things happened today. It’s normal to-”

“When I say that I’m fine, I really am fine.” The words come out sharper and less patient than she means them to and Maka scrambles for something to dull them.

“I don’t like thinking about it,” she says. She gestures to the movie and then to Spirit. “Doing this with you helps a lot.”

Something in Spirit’s face changes and her eyes widen as he pulls her into a crushing hug. His words are muffled against her ear. “You’re my world, you know.”

She wants to be small again, she wants to feel secure in her father’s hug again, she wants to believe that his words are enough to shield her from everything bad again. But even back then she knew what the world held, so Maka closes her eyes and her thoughts and wraps her arms around her father.

Spirit lets go first. “Go ahead.” He pats her shoulder and releases Maka, eyes shining oddly, his voice higher than usual. “I’ll pause the movie for you.”

She nods and stands, unable to look him in the eye. In the bathroom, she leans against the counter and stares at the floor.

“Don’t,” Maka tells Soul as he passes through the door. “I already know.”

“Imagine how he’ll be if something happens to you,” Soul says. “He’d never recover.”

There is nothing Maka can say to counter it because she knows it’s true. Nearly dying twice had devastated Spirit; aside from tonight, she sees it daily in the looks that linger when he thinks she’s absorbed in something else, in the way he takes every excuse to check in on her, and it makes her heart twinge.

She dodges directly answering him. “You’re assuming the worst case scenario,” she says, pulling out her phone and dialing a number. “Try thinking about the best case.”

“Impossible.”

She rolls her eyes as she listens to the phone ring over and over; she’s about to give up when Black Star finally answers. There’s a riot of noise and screaming in the background and he has to yell to make himself heard. “Did you decide to come after all?”

Maka remembers the house jumping competition. “No,” she says, trying to raise her voice as loudly as she can without Spirit hearing her. “I need a favor,” she says before Black Star can say anything else. “No questions asked.”

There’s a nearly imperceptible pause on his end. The ‘no questions asked’ clause had been established when she, Tsubaki and Black Star were young, used only in true emergencies. Then Black Star asks, “What do you need?”

She breathes out a sigh of relief.  “A distraction.”

**\---**

Ten minutes after Maka exits the bathroom and they settle into the next movie, Spirit’s phone rings.

She doesn’t look up from the screen as Spirit answers. “Albarn here.”

He’s quiet while the other person on the line speaks, and then he stands suddenly, hearing his tone changing from disinterested to concerned. “Is anyone hurt? How long has it been going on?”

Maka’s eyes widen in alarm. What exactly had Black Star done?

Meanwhile, Spirit is pulling on his vest, talking hurriedly. “I’ll be there soon.”

She peers over at Spirit as he hangs up. “What’s going on?”

“Someone set a house on fire in old Orcus Hollow,” he answers distractedly, grabbing his boots. “And of all nights, they had to choose when all of those kids from the high school are out there, though it doesn’t look like anyone is hurt.”

Maka breathes out a silent sigh of relief. “Are you going?”

He nods and a guilty look comes across his face. “I’m sorry.”

“I understand.” She tries to sound disappointed. “How long will you be out?”

“The fire seems to be spreading though most of the firefighter crew is out there already.” Spirit stands to head to the door and she rises as well. “So it’s a matter of seeing how quickly they can contain it.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Spirit says at the door, pausing briefly to give her a one-armed hug. “I’ll call you if anything else comes up.”

Maka gives a quick dip of her head and steps back; something fluttery and full of panic fills her lungs as Spirit opens the door.

“Papa.”

He turns. “Yes?”

She hesitates-most of what she wants to say she cannot say.

“Be safe,” Maka says finally.

Spirit smiles at her. “I always am.”

Maka stays in front of the door even after Spirit closes it, and it’s not until she looks down that she realizes her hands are trembling.

Soul materializes next to her, glancing at Maka. “Still sure that this is the best idea?”

She clenches her hands and does not back down from his gaze, full of things she has yet to understand. “Absolutely.”

**\---**

Black Star’s voice sounds breathless from the other side of the phone as he answers Maka’s call. “Did it work?”

“Yes,” Maka replies, boots sinking into the soft mud as she treks off the road and towards the forest, flashlight in hand. From where she’s situated from the inside of her jacket, Blair pokes her head out. “But arson was not what I had in mind when I asked for a distraction.”

“I was working with a limited amount of supplies and a box of matches happened to be one of them,” he retorts. “And it’s not arson if the only people that house belonged to are ghosts.”

She squashes her laugh with a cough. “Well, either way it worked.” At the edge of the forest, Maka comes to a stop. “I just wanted to thank you,” she says, swallowing hard.

Black Star lets out a small snort. “I’ve always wanted an excuse to set something on fire.”

“I need to get going.” Maka shuffles in place as Blair bats her paw at her nose. “But could you check on my dad in the morning?”

Maka feels the questions cropping up in Black Star’s silence but when he speaks, his reply is short. “Sure.”

“Thank you.”

“You better not do anything stupid,” he adds suddenly.

“No, that’s your job, isn’t it?” she answers. “See you later.”

Without waiting for a reply, Maka hangs up and stuffs the phone in her pocket, adjusting her grip on her flashlight. The moon is a sliver in the sky and scatters only the dimmest of light-in the forest, it won’t mean anything at all.

The chill of the wind swirling around her in small eddies cuts through Maka’s jacket as she unzips it, and Blair jumps lightly to the ground; she suppresses a shiver, ignores the abrupt pounding of her heart, and turns her head to Soul. “Ready?”

“Yes,” pipes up Blair, treading crankily in a line back and forth. The cat had only agreed to help when Soul reminded her that she’d been the one to lead him into the forest the first time. “Blair is freezing.”

“And I’m dead,” Soul responds. “We all have problems.”

With an insulted air, Blair raises her tail high and strides into the forest without another word.

Sucking in a breath, Maka pushes aside her fear and plunges in after Blair. She keeps the beam of the flashlight trained on the cat as she follows Blair, catching glimpses of Soul keeping pace with her. Silence threads between them and neither she nor Soul tries to break it as they travel into the forest, but there is comfort in knowing he is next to her.

The forest whispers with the melody of the nightlife though it fades when Blair passes by, as if the animals can tell she’s not quite one of them. The cat pays no mind to it at all, sparing occasional glances back to Maka and Soul.

The hike through the forest seems to go much faster this time; Maka is the first to spy the break of the forest line and the swamp beyond it, quickening her step.

“Wait.” Blair trots back towards them as they exit the forest. “I need to go check something.”

“Or make an early escape,” comments Soul.

Blair swishes her tail in annoyance. “It’d be awfully unfortunate to run into Giriko as he is entering or leaving the house.”

“Good point,” Maka says, giving Soul a look.

The cat disappears with an unnatural speed, blending into the darkness and the shadows.

Maka fingers the pepper spray she has on a strap around her wrist, checking again for her pocket knife. They’d hardly seemed enough in the safety of her house, and now, staring out against the vast expanse of the swamp, she feels worse than unprepared.

“This is a horror movie,” Soul says out of nowhere. He meets Maka’s eyes. “We’re in a horror movie.”

A laugh bursts from her as she realizes the truth of his words. “So does that mean I’m going to survive?”

“Depends on who you are,” he says. “Though I’d say your chances are good.”

“And you?”

“I’m dead.” He shrugs. “I already told you where I stand in everything.”

“And I already told you what I think about that,” she replies, as coolly he did.

“He’s not here.” Blair’s sudden reappearance makes them both jump. “At least, he’s not outside,” the cat says, taking a seat in front of Maka. “The magic shielding his house is too strong for me to sense anything in it.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.” The restless unease in Soul’s words increases. “It was too easy getting here,” he says. “Something’s not right.”

Blair licks her paw. “Actually, this isn’t all too different than when you followed me into the forest.”

“And we see how well that went for me.”

“We’re wasting time,” Maka interrupts. She crouches down to give Blair a small rub between her ears. “Thank you for taking us this far.”

“Think of it as a thank you for all the fish.” The cat pushes her head against Maka’s palm and gives Soul a guilty glance. “Among other things.”

He snorts but doesn’t say anything as Maka straightens.

The cat rises and turns. “I’ll look for you in the morning.” With that, she vanishes back into the forest.

Maka moves forward without looking at Soul, following the bend in the land Blair had went in earlier. “Do you think you’ll be able to feel it?” she asks as she fights the suction pull of the mud. “Whatever he took?”

“I don’t know.” Soul goes quiet for a moment. “I’ve never felt whole so I didn’t realize anything more was missing.”

The crimson in Soul’s eyes catch on the little light from the moon as Maka turns to look at him. She contemplates him, ignoring the desire curling in her hands to reach out. “We’ll find it.”

Soul looks like he’s about to say something else and then he nods.

The swamp opens up in front of them as they round the rest of the bend and, in the middle of the water rests a wooden house, almost ordinary except for where it stands, its windows dark. A prickly feeling worms its way into Maka’s chest the longer she stares at the house, logic trilling in her ears that she should turn back now.

“Look.”

She looks to where Soul points; a small, rickety footbridge spans from the edge of the swamp to the house. “Useful.”

“A little too much so.”

She shrugs it away, refusing to let him influence her. “Even murderers don’t like getting their pants drenched.”

He laughs once without humor.

The bridge quivers underneath Maka’s feet as she steps onto the bridge, eyes fixed on the house. She doesn’t allow her mind to drift to what might be swimming in the water below her but her pace quickens.

She breathes out when she reaches the stairs to the house. They creak noisily as she climbs onto the first step and she freezes, gaze flying to the windows. After a minute of them remaining dark, she eases forward carefully, wincing with each tiny groan of the stairs.

The front door has no lock, Maka notices as she steps onto the porch. Logic rails against her one last time before she reaches for the door handle; it is strangely warm in her hand and twists easily, swinging open without a sound.

She’s not sure what she expected as she steps through the door. The air hangs heavy with dread, tension, and something else she can’t identify, but everything she sees is ordinary. The entryway leads into a parlor lined with bookcases that are filled with books titled in languages she has never seen before.

Beyond the living room, she spies two sets of staircases, one leading up into the second story and the other plunging downwards.

She glances at Soul. “Should we look around here first?”

“It’s not here,” he says with an odd certainty. He answers Maka’s unspoken question without looking at her. “He killed me upstairs.”

The noise of ancient wood boards creaking under her feet is the only sound as Maka heads up the stairs. The house is too big for how it appeared from the outside, Maka realizes as she passes window after window.

She represses her shudder as they reach the landing and pauses at the sight of hallways jutting off in every direction.

“It was a round room.” Soul’s expression is heavy in concentration. He points in the direction of a hallway. “That way.”

Maka lets him lead, trailing after him. She tries peeking into rooms but they’re all locked. It makes her frown but it doesn’t seem to concern Soul, who moves like he knows exactly what he’s looking for.

He comes to a stop in front of a door at the end of the hallway that looks much like the other doors. “I want to check in here.”

The handle of this door does turn in Maka’s hand and she pushes it open, stepping inside and looking about her eagerly.

A long table bordered by lighted lamps spread apart in equal segments takes up most of the room, which is eerily and perfectly circular. Portraits of a woman hang on walls that stretch up into darkness, while shadows dance in the spaces between the paintings.

Soul drifts around the room slowly, eyes wide. “It’s different,” he breathes. “But this is it.”

There’s nothing in here that appears to be anything of Soul’s but he continues to move about, even after Maka calls him. Her focus turns to a portrait of the woman. She is beautiful, jet black hair delicately arranged against ivory shoulders, but there is an unearthliness about the woman that unsettles Maka, a coldness in her eyes that whisper of death.

“Isn’t she lovely?” a voice from the ceiling asks. “She’ll be happy to have you in her collection.”

A figure draped in shadow drops from above; the shadow dissolves and Soul’s murderer grins at Maka with shark-like teeth.

He looks nothing like she imagined: young, blonde, with metal piercings lining the bridge of his nose, and dressed in black. But there is something rotting and diseased in him that pricks at her senses. She shrinks away, feeling her back hit the wall as he steps closer; greediness dances in his face and shows itself in the way his nails tap against the blade of the knife in his hand.

“Well, I suppose we should get to it,” he drawls. His gaze drills into Soul. “It was a surprise to learn you were here again but it’s a mistake we can fix.”

Disgust paints across Soul’s face and he flings a hand forward but nothing moves.

“Ghosts have no power here.” Giriko spreads his lips wide in a bared smile of jagged teeth. He takes a step towards them, eyes on Maka. “Not even you.”

He leaps forward with an unexpected litheness, his hand wrapping in Maka’s hair. A cry rips from her lips and she brings up her knee sharply, feeling the hold on her hair loosen. Pulling free, she stumbles towards the door.

A hand grips Maka’s arm and sends her sprawling headlong into the table, shoots of pain lighting from the top of her head. She blinks it away, scrambling onto the table as she dodges the knife swiping at her. Reflex and instinct drive her movements and she nearly misses the warning Soul yells out as she ducks to one side. Her eyes widen as she sees the flash of a second blade hurtling towards her face.

The knife swerves out of its path, wrenching out of Giriko’s hand.

His surprise is slight but she takes full advantage of it, hitting him squarely in the face with pepper spray. Giriko lets out a howl, dropping the knife, and Maka springs from the table for the door.

He still moves faster than her, however, hurling her back. The weight of Giriko cuts off her flailing and pins Maka to the table. “How did you do that?”

She tries to crane her head away but a hand holds her in place. His breath is hot against her ear as he trails a finger down her cheek to her collarbone. “Humans are so fragile.” A choked cry winds in her throat when his nail scrapes against her skin. “But so fun to play with.”

Maka wrests an arm free from him, hand stretching desperately for anything to help her when she remembers her pocket knife. The blade scrapes against her palm as she pulls it free and drives the knife into Giriko’s shoulder.

She doesn’t expect the way he cracks her head against the table; Soul’s yells fills her ears and stars blink in her vision but she’s no longer pinned under Giriko. Rolling to her side, her fingers enclose around the metal of a lamp by the table, and she catches a glimpse of the snarl on Giriko’s face turning into surprise as she swings the lamp in an arc to crack against his head.

The smell of kerosene drenches the air as Giriko staggers backwards. Leaping to her feet, Maka pedals backwards and watches as tiny flames lick down the side of his face and arm. A mix of horror and disgust rises in her mouth but she cannot bring herself to look away as the fire envelopes his body whole and spreads across the floor.

Distantly, she becomes aware of someone yelling in her ear.

Soul’s face hovers in front of hers, impatient worry cracking his voice. “We have to go.”

She stares blankly at him and then she blinks. “Yes.” The sharp smell of smoke brings her to her senses. “Yes.”

The fire begins to crawl up the walls as they reach the door, but the handle fails to twist in her hands. A familiar panic pounds in Maka’s fingers as she tries the handle again and the door refuses to budge.

Buried memories infuse with her terror; Maka doesn’t turn around, knowing if she sees the flames, her hold on her fear will break. Her voice comes out in a whisper. “Soul, I need your help.”

“Of cou-” He stops as he realizes what she means. “I can’t.”

“You can.” She twists her head enough to meet his eyes. The heat of the flames trickles in beads of sweat down her neck and the smoke makes her eyes water. “The door won’t open otherwise.”

“I can get it open,” he insists. “Ju-”

Panic turns her words frantic. “I need you!” Her voices softens. “I trust you.” Maka holds out her hand. “Please.”

The hesitation in Soul’s face drains away and he lifts his hand to meet hers.

Like before, a crushing feeling sweeps over Maka but it isn’t as all-consuming and she lets out a gasp as Soul’s different memories appear in her vision.

 _Are you okay?_ Anxiety from Soul’s side seeps over to her.

She pushes away the memories. “I’m fine.”

The door comes down in two swift kicks, smoke gushing into the hallway as they stumble out of the room, catching the gleams of flame creeping out as they run for the stairs.

A stitch burns in their side as they leap from the last three steps and cross the parlor to the front door in a couple of strides. Like the door on the second floor, the front door does not open when they tug on the handle.

Unlike the door upstairs, the front door does not buckle under their kicks. The window in the parlor also fails to even crack when  they throw a chair at it.

_I told you this was a bad idea._

Maka steers them back to the door. “Can we save the ‘I told you’ for later?”

The smell of burning skin pierces the air. “So you’ve moved onto possession then?”

They spin around in alarm and nearly retch.

Giriko stands in the entrance to the parlor, little more than charred flesh and exposed bone, skin peeling away from where it still clings to him. He stares at them with a hungry gleam in his eyes. “Arachne will be pleased.”

He speaks into his scorched hands a language that neither understand and then he raises his head, shooting them a grin full of jagged teeth. “My only regret is that I won’t be there to see it.” A moving darkness pulses in the center of Giriko’s chest and bleeds across his body, pulling at them in an inexorable tug.

Suddenly and with a speed neither expects, Giriko lurches towards them. His laugh is heavy in their ears as he grabs their wrist and the world turns black.

**\---**

They’re in the place where the demon dragged Maka four years ago. She recognizes the darkness instantly as their senses return, the way it ripples and breathes on its own, whispers of a million demons crawling in their ears. In the distance is the house, pulled into this world with them and somehow whole again. Giriko is nowhere to be seen, presumably consumed by the darkness or changed into one of the monsters prodding at the fabrics of their mind.

Soul hoists them to their feet before she can protest. _We have to get back to that portal._

He tries to move them but Maka keeps them in place.

_What’s wrong?_

Every part of her is numb; there has been something wrong since Giriko laid his hands on her but she shakes her head. “Nothing.”

_Let’s go then._

She lets Soul move them, knowing fear would clamp them down in one spot if she led. The demons don’t attack as they edge into the darkness and towards the house but they follow, voices pricking at the back of their neck. The voices would be easy to ignore if it weren’t for the soft way their words drip with allure as they whisper something barely indiscernible over and over.

The words ring with truth and their footsteps slow as Maka tries to catch the words; they’re important, the voices promise as they coil around them, pulling tighter and swelling in volume with every step.

_Don’t listen to them._

The trance the voices had pulled her in lifts slightly. “What?”

_Keep focused._

She wants to ask what Soul hears but he is walled in on his side - all she can feel of him is a stiff tautness in their legs as he guides them forward.

As they walk, the demons’ voices continue to dig at her but Maka closes their ears against their words and trains their focus on their feet. The house is in view when something on the ground glints in the darkness.

It calls to Maka in a way that she cannot resist and she seizes control, bending down to pick up the broken mirror shard. It rests perfectly in her palm and she peers into it, seeing her reflection for a moment before her face is replaced with her mother’s.

“Mama,” she breathes out, hand stretching out. “I’ve missed you so mu-”

Her mother’s face vanishes just before her hand grazes the glass. The bitterness of disappointment briefly fills her mouth before she spies another face forming in the mirror. Her breath turns into a shocked gasp as Mrs. Horschenblott stares up at her.

Maka moves quickly but all her fingers scratch against is hollow, empty glass, two tiny cracks in the mirror now.

Eliza’s face gazes out at her when she pulls her fingers away and her eyes sting as she keeps her hand at her side but the longer Eliza stays, the more her resolve crumbles until she reaches out.

A third crack joins the existing two as the mirror turns blank and smooth underneath her fingertips.

Screams build in her lungs and she tries to fling the shard away but it sticks to her hand and stays in place even when she tries to pry it off with her nails. Another face swirls in the glass; she should look away but she can’t, she shouldn’t reach out but she does, and every time, the cracks in the glass grow larger and deeper.

 _Move,_ a voice from far away pleads but Maka can’t bring herself to; she can only look, reach, and never hold.

Finally, her own face appears in the mirror, fractured and distorted but hers.

One last time, Maka reaches out.

The mirror splits her reflection into countless pieces before shattering.

The fragments of herself and everyone she ever cared about spill from her hands to the ground. She’d ruined them, destroyed some of them, not because she had wanted to but because she had not been able to do enough, she couldn’t do enough, she could not be enough.

She was never enough.

_Maka!_

She finally registers Soul’s words but she doesn’t answer in case he disappears as well.

_What are you looking at?_

She pushes their gaze to the tiny shards at their feet to see only darkness beneath them. A laugh swells on their lips; she’d read once that people know the best way to break themselves and she sees the truth of it now.

Soul pushes down the laugh and pulls on their feet. _We have to move._

There’s no point in moving when it leads to nowhere.

 _A little more,_ he pleads as he drags them an inch. There is fear in his words but it’s not for himself and she doesn’t understand. _Just a little more._

More? She searches within herself for more, digs deep into the roots of her being and comes up with nothing. She’s spent, given everything, and it is still not enough-it has never been enough and she doesn’t know why she thought it’d be different with him.

Their legs collapse from under them and she lets them fall; Soul tries to pull them up but she is drained and her exhaustion is too heavy for him to carry by himself. Above them, the whispers of the demons increase in volume.

She hopes they devour her mind before they rip her apart.

Soul’s frustration slams down like a drum; she feels a wave of surprise that he’s still trying reach her. _Listen._

It’s the last thing she can do so she does.

A song plays from the point where their souls meet, distant but growing louder with each passing second. The music is not sound but it moves like it, weaving a rhythm that spreads across their souls.

Instantly, she recognizes the same wild, chaotic refrain that she heard in the hospital before she woke up, but with more. Now, there’s another half that entwines itself in the spaces between the notes of the first, and it’s both familiar and alien. It winds itself around her in a steady tempo, although there is too much passion in the notes to call it completely soothing.

The two melodies guide each other in a dance until she can’t tell where one starts and the other ends as it dawns on her.

“It’s us.”

_Yes._

Maka listens to her song again; it beats like courage and sings like hope. It doesn’t erase the pain in her veins or the doubt in her mind, but the demon’s power over her wanes and that is enough.

“I’m sorry.” She forces them to their feet, knees wavering but still standing. Maybe if she listens to her song long enough, she’ll believe it one day.

_Nothing you need to apologize for._

The darkness changes as they shift in place. The demons still don’t move but there is a fevered pitch in their voices and the tension in the air sharpens.

 _When we run, so will they._ Their muscles tense as they measure the distance between them in the house and wait for an opening-they have only one chance of making it through the portal.

Abruptly, the demons cease their whispers and they react in the same instant. The darkness is spongy, sending their balance rocking back and forth as they sprint to the house.

Fingers scrabble against the surface of Maka’s mind, searching for purchase. She anchors herself in their song, doesn’t let herself think of anything else but the melody as they reach the outside stairs.

Claws sharp as knives graze against the back of their neck as they leap above the stairs and through the door in a single motion, slamming it shut in the next. They swipe the air, sending the bookcase by the door crashing down before whirling around to the living room.

The portal is not there.

“It was there.” Panic drills into their skin. “It was right there.”

_I know._

The portraits of the witch flash across their vision.

They launch themselves towards the stairs just as the furious thudding against the door is replaced by a resounding crack. The house fills with the hissing of ravenous demons; they take the stairs, two at a time, flinging open the door to the circular room.

From the other side of the room, the portal gleams in front of the witch’s painting.

An inhuman shriek at their heels grates against their eardrums as they launch themselves across the room and into the portal. There’s a giant ripping sound and a crushing sensation swallows them as a different kind of darkness surrounds them.

And then there is nothing but light.

**\---**

The taste of ashes on their tongue is the first thing they become aware of when they open their eyes.

Instead of seeing the ceiling of the house, they’re greeted by the blue-black of the night sky, dredged in the grey of smoke wafting up from all around them. Dying embers fizzle as they twist their head from one side to the other.

The smoke alone should be concerning at the very least but fatigue cakes their muscles, making it all but impossible to move, much less care. They lay in silence in their mind until a realization strikes them at once.

It takes several attempts for them to sit up and even longer to register the house that had existed minutes ago is nothing but a weakly burning skeleton. They get to their feet only for their legs to crumple underneath them; the next time they stand, they keep their balance, although it is a nebulous thing that swivels at the edge of their grasp.

They stumble out of the smoldering remnants of the house, wobbling with every step, and nearly trip face first down the steps. Landing on their knee, they push themselves into a sitting position on the last step. A soft mist begins to drizzle from the sky as a laugh brimming with hysteria falls from their lips.

“We’re alive.”

They toss back their head to the sky and the stars wink down at them in silent elation.

_We’re alive._

The sound of their shared breathing beats in time with their heart and they stare up at the sky until darkness begins to dance at the edge of their vision, world spiraling in dizzying turns. Maka forces it all back; in her head, the song of their connection begins to recede into nothingness as Soul shifts away and his presence shrinks and peels back from her mind and body.

Longing rends her heart; she wants to hear the song a little longer.

Tiny raindrops dust her arm as Maka raises her right hand, palm to the sky. “Stay with me,” she whispers. “Please.”

The song falters and her heartbeat stutters in disappointment. Then her left hand closes over her right, intertwining their fingers together, and the song resumes. _Okay._


	12. In my beginning is my end

The light of the rising sun bleeds golden on the surface of the bog when Soul finally breaks the silence. “We should get going.”

“Mhm.” Maka can’t even find the strength in her to look up from where she has her head propped on her palm. Possession had left her feeling many things, but the only emotion she can summon right now is numb exhaustion.

“Hey, did you hear me?” 

Soul’s face is suddenly right in front of hers and she yawns. His hair is more silver than brown, glimmering in the sunlight and framing him in a soft glow. “You’re beautiful,” she informs him.

He makes something between a strangled noise and a laugh. “Now I’m worried you’re hallucinating.”

Soul’s hand hovers just over hers; the desire to reach out stirs to life in her fingertips but she knows he won’t agree. She tries anyways. “You could walk for me.”

“Not a chance.” Soul disappears, moving back beside her, and she frowns.

“You’re lazy.”

“Absolutely,” he agrees. “I forgot how much work having a body was.”

Maka pokes her tongue out at him and he laughs. “All right,” she grumbles, pulling her head up from her hand. “I’ll do it myself.”

“Excellent.”

The world spins as she stands. Soul stands next to her though he keeps a careful distance between them.

She wants to make a comment on it but it takes all of her willpower to keep her balance.

There is concern in Soul’s voice as he asks, “Ready?”

Maka responds by plunging into the bogwater.

Neither she nor Soul look back to the gaping wreckage of the house.

**\---**

Maka comes more alive in the forest, exhaustion pushed to the back of her mind as they approach the road.

She’s not sure why it hits her so strongly. She and Soul had separated not long after the rain had stopped; depossession had been surprisingly simple-all it had taken was Soul letting go of her hand and she was alone again (well, both hands had been hers, she supposes, though it had not felt like it).

She glances at the ghost. He’s been quiet since they cleared the bog and she’s awake enough to frown at the heavily concentrated expression on his face.

“I don’t know what I’m going to tell my father,” she says. There’s not much for Soul to reply to that but they had been the first words she thought of.

He blinks, looking confused, and she almost hopes he didn’t hear her when he speaks, grinning slyly but not making eye contact. “You can always tell him you were out with a boy.”

Maka’s laugh is surprised and loud, sending birds flying and scolding. “I think I’d have better luck with telling him how I nearly got sacrificed to a witch.”

Soul’s grin dims. “I-” He stops. “I was scared.”

He doesn’t pull back when Maka draws closer. “So was I.” She meets his eyes. “But we’re both still here.” She swallows. “The house is gone, though.”

There is a slight pause. “When I agreed to stay earlier, I didn’t mean it for just then.” Soul is looking ahead of him as he talks. “I mean it for everything.”

Maka looks ahead of her as well, heart beating like a drum. “When I asked you to stay, I meant it for everything.”

The relief in his voice is apparent. “Okay.”

She glances at Soul to find him already looking at her. “All right.”

They walk the rest of the way in silence; fatigue pricks at Maka’s muscles and she nearly cries when she sees the road.

She turns to Soul as her feet touch asphalt. “I-”

A whiny screeching fills the air from behind them and Maka twists in time to see a white van grinding to halt in the middle of the road. Dust kicks up in the air at the van’s abrupt stop, obscuring the name printed on its side.

The van door slides open and a boy with dreadlocks trailed by two children scramble out. But it’s the golden-haired woman who bolts from the van after them that grabs her attention. “What did I tell you about getting ahead of yourselves?” Marie yells as she follows into the forest.

“We got a reading on an active rift late last night,” a familiar monotone voice says. Stein exits the van, stretching until his back cracks. He straightens his glasses, not quite looking at Maka. “I’m guessing it had to do with you two.”

Even with her astonishment, Maka goes on the defensive. “It’s only me.”

“You don’t have to pretend he doesn’t exist.” Azusa’s sharp voice comes from the driver’s seat and she rolls down the window. She glances at Stein. “This one almost has as many silver hairs as you.”

Maka can only gape.

“Come in, both of you.” Stein gestures towards the van. “We have a lot to talk about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is the end of the first part of the Ghost Eater series! Sorry to leave off on a bit of a cliffhanger there but it was necessary for series plot reasons; I've always planned this story to be a trilogy and have the rest of the series already planned out. While life is too hectic for me at the moment to say when the sequel will be published, it is definitely in the works. I appreciate all of the kudos and wonderful comments I have gotten so far-thank you so much for reading and I hope to see you at the next Ghost Eater fic!


End file.
